


Walking On Broken Glass

by WulfenOne



Series: Butterflies With Angel Wings [24]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Kidnapping, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 00:25:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12569548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WulfenOne/pseuds/WulfenOne
Summary: What do you do when the past you thought was gone forever comes back to hunt you, and those you hold dearest? Psylocke, Archangel and the rest of their family are about to find out, in spades.





	1. Opening Gambit

The bar is getting busy; it's Friday night, and people are filtering through the doors in bigger and bigger numbers. Luckily, Uncle Logan and I got here long before anyone else did, and we're able to watch the slowly-increasing crowds coming in from a comfortable booth in the corner. Logan is nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels, a small glass held in his thick fingers filled almost to the brim with the golden brown liquid. Myself, I'm drinking Coke, because I know that if I try to match Logan drink for drink – even with my genetically engineered metabolism – I'll end up bringing it all back up again, and waking up with a headache the size of Albania. Logan sees me looking at the bar's patrons absently, and taps me on the forehead with a blunt forefinger.

"Hey, kid, you still in there?" he asks, sounding a little concerned. "I don't think your mom would approve, Rebecca. You want me to put some spice in that Coke for ya?" He holds up the bottle of whiskey obligingly. "I won't tell if you won't."

I shake my head. "No thanks, Logan. Thanks for offering, but… no thanks. I'd like to be able to walk out of here  _without_  needing to pee every five minutes, thanks."

Logan chuckles. "All right, pup, I understand. You just sing out if you change your mind though, okay?" He slugs back another glassful of whiskey and grimaces as it hits the back of his throat, snapping his fingers as he swallows. "Man," he says, "that's some damn fine cherry pie."

 _Okay, now I'm confused…_  "Uh… isn't that whiskey?" I say, feeling stupid for even asking the question. "I mean, I know what cherry pie looks like, and that's definitely  _not_  cherry pie."

Logan's rough face splits into a grin again, and he shakes his head. "Don't worry, pup – it's just a line from a TV show I used to watch. It's a little before your time, I guess."

"Logan, pretty much  _everything_  is before my time," I reply, sourly. "Guess I have some catching up to do, huh?"

"Guess so," Logan agrees, offering me a gruff half-smile. "Don't worry, kid; I'm pretty sure the rest of the guys at the mansion will help ya adjust – the ice cube'll give you a crash course in channel-surfing if you ask him nice, I guess. Kid's got too much experience not to share it with somebody else…" He laughs. "He once spent an entire night watching a Simpsons marathon, just to see the episodes right in the middle. We found him on the couch the next morning surrounded by candy bars and soda cans."

"Sounds like he had fun," I reply thoughtfully. "Maybe when Mum and I can get a little time to ourselves, we could try doing that?"

"With your brother around, kid, I don't think any of you is going to get any peace." Logan pauses for a second to let his gaze linger on the behind of a young woman who is walking past our booth, her tight purple-velvet trousers and skimpy black top clinging to every supple curve and line of her lithe, toned body. Then he notices me glaring at him, and he coughs, looking a little embarrassed. "Sorry, kid. Got a little distracted there."

"So I noticed," I say, raising an eyebrow and leaning back in my seat, giving Logan my best disapproving look (which should work damn well, seeing as I copied it from Mum and Uncle Scott. If there are two people in the entire world who can make you feel bad about doing something wrong, it's those two). "You're old enough to be her grandfather – you should be ashamed of yourself."

"Yeah, maybe so, but there ain't a law about admiring the view, is there?" Logan mirrors my posture in his own seat, scratching one of his muttonchops with the fingers of his left hand, before picking up the bottle of whiskey and pouring another measure into his glass. "Tell ya what – you let me have that one, and I won't get in the way of this guy. And I won't tell Sam about it, either," He nods past me, and I have to twist in my seat to see what he's directing me towards. When I do, I'm a little surprised to see a young man walking confidently towards where I'm sitting, a glass of beer in one hand and a self-assured look on his handsome face, his stylish black shirt and jeans telling me that he's a lot more wealthy than he's letting on. As he gets closer, I can feel his thoughts more distinctly, and they're not pretty – he's already imagining me stripping for him, grinding my body against his in a sort of sweaty ballet with only one possible ending. I can already see the imagined pleasure writhing in his dark eyes like naked flesh, and it makes me feel almost physically ill.

"No, Logan," I say, knowing that my growing disgust has to be showing on my face despite everything that I've been taught about controlling my emotions. "Not this one. Not in a million years." Logan blinks, surprised, but then nods in understanding.

"Okay, darlin'," he says. "You know best."

The young man finally gets close enough to ask "May I cut in?", leaning down towards me with a killer's smile. I can sense the poisonous intentions oozing off him as he offers to buy me a drink, and I shake my head, trying to shrug off the nasty feelings that my telepathy won't let me ignore.

"No, thank you," I say quietly, trying to restrain the urge to puke at what I can sense dripping from his mind, like burning candle wax. "It was nice of you to offer, but no thank you. I have a boyfriend."

"Come on," the young man says, a slightly annoyed edge entering into his voice. "One drink won't do you any harm, will it?"

"The lady said no, bub," Logan snarls as he flexes his hands around his whiskey bottle and shot glass, the knuckles of his fingers going white with pressure. "Take a hike."

The young man glares at Logan. "Oh, really? And what are you going to do about it, old man? Bite my kneecaps off?"

Logan's angry expression turns to one of amusement, and he cracks his knuckles one by one. "Oh, I ain't the one you should be worrying about, punk." He sits back in his seat and smiles subtly at me. "Best just to take your pretty-boy face and get outta here while you can still walk."

The young man twists his lip in contempt. "I don't have to listen to this," he snaps, reaching for my wrist and trying to grab me so that he can drag me to my feet. "I always," he says in a cold, emotionless voice, "get what I want." As he reaches for me, time seems to slow down, and I can see everything happening in all-too-clear definition – the man's fingers clawing at my arm as he tries to get the best grip, Logan beginning to rise up out of his seat despite what he's just said, and my own body beginning to shift aside so that it can start retaliating. My heartbeat thunders in my ears as I spring to my feet, grabbing the young man's wrist and twisting it up and round so that I am stood behind him, his hand pressed between his shoulder blades. My other hand reaches up to grasp his thick dark hair, slamming his head down against the surface of our table. I hear his nose break with a wet crunch, and I can smell the bloody explosion that splatters across the table's laminated surface.

"You really should listen when somebody gives you a warning," I hiss into his ear. "It makes life a lot easier."

"Bitch!" the man roars nasally, spraying blood from his mouth where a tooth has punched through his bottom lip. "You broke my fucking nose!"

Squeezing casually, I grind a couple of the bones in his wrist together to just before their breaking point, making him scream with pain. It slices into the front of my brain like a scalpel, but I don't care – not right now, anyway. "That's not the only thing I can break, idiot. Now go get your nose fixed before you hurt yourself any more."

The man starts to say something else then, blood dripping from his nose and onto the floor as he does so, but his voice is drowned out by a sudden howling screech that seems to come from everywhere in the room at once. Everyone in the bar turns their heads in confusion, trying to work out what could have made the sound, and where it could have come from. Their thoughts tell the same story – confusion, panic, uncertainty and fear all flow off them freely. I can see Logan turning his head from side to side, trying to catch any unusual scents above the thick smell of stale sweat and alcohol. "Anything?" I ask, knowing already what the answer is going to be.

"Nope," Logan says, gritting his teeth in frustration. "Nothing." Then his eyes widen and he jabs a blunt forefinger towards the centre of the room, where a large, boiling vortex has formed in mid-air, the howling noise coming from the knot in its centre. "'Less you count that, that is."

The vortex looks like an upside-down whirlpool, its funnel-like shape tapering to a point that touches the high roof of the room, and the open end of the funnel spreading out to cover half the dance-floor. Rumbling noises come from deep inside it, along with more screeching sounds, until finally a huge shape crashes to the ground, smashing the floorboards underneath it into sawdust. It's only when the debris clears that I can get a good look at what's come through the vortex (or portal, as it's obviously become).

Standing in the middle of the bar on two sharp-clawed feet is a huge, hulking monster, its leathery bat-like wings folded up on its broad back. Its red skin drips with blood, as do its claws, and blood clings to the matted fur of legs that look like a cat's, if that cat were to stand on two legs instead of four. It turns, flexing its giant hands and the coal-black meat-hooks it has for talons, and I see its face for the first time. The creature has a mane of black fur which sprouts from its scalp and hides its muscular neck, and its face is stretched out like a wolf's, two sabre teeth sprouting from both its upper and lower jaws and pointed ears mounted on the top of its head. Its bare-skinned chest is massively powerful, and it looks like it could easily crush a man's skull in one of its huge fists.

The worst things about it, though, are its eyes. They are a burning red colour, like hot coals, and the only thing I can see in them is bloodlust. It breathes out once, hot yellowish vapour spewing from its nostrils like toxic gas, and then it fixes its evil red eyes on the guy whose nose I just broke, a pointed tongue emerging from its snout as it sniffs the air once, and then once again. It strides forward, its clawed feet leaving little fire-edged imprints in the floor, its massive hands reaching out for him eagerly. He tries to run, but stumbles and falls, and then scrabbles across the floor clumsily, like a spider with three legs. The beast sees him collapse and begins to stalk towards him, drawing its razor-tipped fingers across its own palms, almost as if it's performing a deliberate ritual of some kind. The creature raises one paw to its mouth and licks the four wounds its talons have made, smearing its own blood onto its snout and snarling in anticipation.

"Uncle Logan –" I begin, swallowing, before Logan pulls his lips back over his teeth, growls aggressively and leaps at the creature, his bone claws popping from between his knuckles at the speed of thought. The beast hears him as he hurls himself at its enormous wings, and turns on the ball of one foot, batting Logan aside with one massive hand. He hurtles through the air, smashing into the bar and scattering broken, jagged glass everywhere, including into his own flesh. He twitches once, and then lies still.

Realising that I'm going to have to stop the monster myself, I dive out from my seated position, scramble forwards quickly until I'm crouched behind a pile of shattered rubble, and then fire a couple of surgical optic blasts at the creature's right leg, hitting it in the back of the knee and in its thick thigh muscle. The monster roars, its massive head swinging round to glare at me, its first prey apparently completely forgotten for a second or two. "You what I came for," it says, in a guttural, choking voice that sounds like steam being poured on a hot skillet. "You what she need. I deal with you when I done with him. " It laughs then, pulling its teeth back over its lips in a frightening smile and gesturing at the prone man, whose terror is making it hard for me to concentrate on anything else. As he tries to pull himself up from the ground, the creature continues "Him what I need."

"No!" the man begs, trying desperately to get out of the reach of the monster's claws. "She said you wouldn't –"

The beast laughs again, scorn blatantly obvious in its voice. "She lie." It stomps towards him and yanks him off the ground with one hand, so that he dangles like a fish on a hook. "You my reward."

Too late, I realise just exactly what that means, and I'm only halfway across the distance between the creature and me when the monster raises the man above its head and jams its other hand deep into his guts, pulling upwards so that the man's ribcage is torn in half and his body becomes little more than a fleshy mess. The creature pulls out his intestines and stuffs them into its mouth, making greedy slurping noises as it does so.

"No!" I scream, horrified. Time slows down again, just so it can show me how much the monster is enjoying its kill. I can feel the man's thoughts screaming one last time as he dies, and I screw my eyes shut for a moment, trying to make the psychic sound fade from my mind – without much success. My stomach lurches abruptly, and I bring up what remains of my dinner onto the shattered floor, the acrid taste of vomit stinging my throat as it splashes on the ground.

The beast turns, mid-mouthful, and smiles bloodily. "Don't worry, little girl. You next," it chuckles, pieces of ragged, bloodstained flesh splattering its chin. Then, tossing aside a half-eaten chunk of liver, it charges towards me, each footfall tearing deep, flame-rimmed gouges into the already beaten-up floor. Its claws reach out for me, slicing through the air with an audible hissing sound. Sweeping tendrils of flame ignite from them as it does so, searing brief after-images onto my eyes, and the monster laughs as it charges closer. "This easier than I thought!" it bellows, amused.

Blinking away the last of the bright colours that had flooded my vision, I grit my teeth and wait for the monster to come within striking distance, clenching my fists and pushing my fear down into a little box in the back of my head.

_Love you, Mum._

When the beast is close enough, I drop to one side, bracing myself with my right arm and using it as a pivot, and try to sweep its feet out from under it with a scything motion of my legs. Its thick calves don't even so much as fold under my kicks, and I have to think quickly as it lunges towards me, claws angled downwards like daggers. Rolling aside as fast as I can, the razor-sharp talons still catch me on the left shoulder, tearing my shirt and gouging long, jagged lines in my flesh. They're only glancing wounds, but they're already burning, as if I've been bitten by a rattlesnake. Almost instantly, I can feel the pain spreading from my shoulder, crawling down my arm and into my chest. My left hand goes numb pretty quickly, my fingers feeling fat and unresponsive, and then the same numbness spreads to the rest of my body. The only things I can still move are my eyes, and through the blurry, unfocused mist that's settling over my brain, I can see the monster staring down at me, laughing and showing me its mouthful of blood-stained fangs.

"She be pleased with me," it chuckles. "She give me honour when I give her you." It bends down and licks my face with its rasping tongue, its hot breath filling my nostrils and making my eyes water with its metallic stench. I can feel thick ropes of bloody saliva draped across my cheeks as the monster grips me with both hands and clutches me close to its body. After it has me securely in its grasp, it spreads its massive wings and leaps into the air, as if it wants to fly through the room's ceiling. Before it gets there, though, the same vortex that brought it here begins to open above us, and the beast flies right into it, confidently ignoring the constant howling noises that come from above us. I'm not so lucky, though, and although I keep wanting to put my hands over my ears to block out the awful sounds, I can't. My ears start to bleed, and before long, I can't stop myself from passing out.

* * *

 

The first thing I notice when I wake up is how dark it is. I remember being in the dark for long periods when I was just out of my birthing tube, just after Sinister gave me his knowledge treatments – Sinister told me it would be distracting for my mind to have light to concentrate on while it was digesting all the new information he was giving me. I didn't question him then, because I didn't know any better.

Right now, though, I'm pretty damned scared. I can't see much at all – only blurry shapes here and there that might be some kind of furniture for this cell – and I can't hear much, either. The only sounds are soft organic whirrs and gurgles that seem to be coming from a long way away (or through  _really_  thick walls). Deciding that I need to try and get out of wherever I am and find a way to escape, I try to sit up. I'm half-expecting my body to still be paralysed from whatever that monster's claws injected into me, so it's a nice surprise to discover that I'm actually fairly mobile. In fact, aside from the bindings I can feel on my feet and wrists, I think I'm pretty capable of doing whatever I want… although when I try to fire an optic blast to give myself some light, it doesn't surprise me at all to discover that I can't.

"Well, you're thorough, whoever you are," I mutter to myself sourly, rolling my eyes.

Just then, a small crescent of light appears close to the floor on my left, widening quickly until there is a large circular doorway spilling light into my cell. Squinting at the opening, I can see that the door is little more than a large sandstone boulder that had been rolled across the opening to this cave (I can see it for what it is now – the walls are the same colour as the boulder, and the benches are carved directly from the sides of the cave itself). Blinking to try and make the pain of the light go away, I can't see much beyond the bright circle that forms the doorway, until a statuesque female form strides into view. She looks down at me with disdain, her purplish-red skin a direct contrast to her jet-black hair and the armour which covers her from her feet to the base of her neck, and smiles, her delicate, needle-like fangs shining in the corona of light that surrounds her. At her feet, numerous squealing, green-skinned imps fight over the scraps of rotten meat that the woman is dropping every few seconds from a blood-encrusted pouch at her waist.

"Hello, Rebecca," she says, shocking me instantly with her knowledge of my name. "I suppose you're wondering who I am, aren't you?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," I manage to spit back, sardonically. The woman's smile fades, and she nods to someone that I can't see. Then, two hulking creatures in armour similar to that which the woman wears (and who are evidently of the same race as she is, given their skin and hair colours) storm inside the cave and wrap their clawed hands around my arms. Their strength is too great for me to resist, and I am dragged outside into the light no matter how much I protest.

The sight that greets me is terrifying. All around me are hordes of monstrous creatures – some that are like the beast that brought me here, some that are walking piles of disease, held together only by festering, fermented pus and crusted-over scabs, and some whose constantly shifting shapes don't look like anything definite for any decent length of time. They are all milling around a cavernous scarlet landscape that looks like it escaped from a Dali painting, melting cliffs and crazily-twisted mountains rising above lakes of fire that hang in mid-air, dripping flame down onto cracked and splintered earth.

The woman laughs at my apparent confusion, and spreads her hands wide. "Don't worry, child," she says, as if those three words could somehow make every insane detail of this place go away, "I felt exactly the same when my masters called me into their service."

"And who might they be?" I ask, angling for more details. The woman smiles at my boldness and reaches forward to touch my cheek. Her fingers are almost unbearably cold, feeling like liquid nitrogen pressed against my skin.

"You're a bold one, aren't you?" she muses, sounding impressed. "Good. I like that." She pauses and then folds her arms across her chest. "Have you ever heard of Satan, child?"

"So you're a devil-worshipper?" I snort with contempt. "You and every other disenchanted teenager in middle America."

"Remember where you are, Rebecca. You'd do well to show me some respect," the woman snaps, fury slashing suddenly across her face. "I worship every dark god – not just Satan, or Loki, or Nastirh, or Dormammu, but all of them. I even offered up a prayer or two to Sharra and Kythri when I thought it appropriate." She smiles coldly. "And the rewards have been… numerous." She gestures at the armour she is wearing, her gloved hand flexing slightly, the sculpted talons on the ends of her fingers glinting in the light. "This armour, for instance. I've been wearing it for hundreds of years, ever since I drew my first drop of blood in the name of my masters. I was just a girl then, living on a nameless backwater planet in the Shi'Ar Imperium – I killed a Shi'Ar soldier and drank his blood after the gods told me what the Shi'Ar were holding back from us. As a reward I was given this suit of armour."

"It's very nice. What do you wear when you're not on duty?" I say, trying to keep a defiant edge to my voice.

"I wear this," the woman replies. "After a time, I found that my body and the armour had merged – I didn't know where I ended and the armour began. But there were benefits." She reaches down to the belt at her waist and slides a long, wavy-bladed dagger from its sheathe. "Watch," she says, as she holds out her left arm, her other arm held high, with the dagger poised to strike. Then, she plunges it down into her forearm, gasping in pain as the blade punches through one side of her arm and comes out of the other, stained with black blood. After a second or two, she yanks the dagger out and throws it to the ground, holding out her arm for me to see. As I watch, I can see the wound knitting itself back together, the black blood that I saw on the blade erupting from the smooth edges of the hole in the armour and sealing the gap almost instantly, until the armour's surface looks as if nothing had ever happened.

"My God…" I breathe, astonished. The woman's formerly pain-wracked features twist into another horrible smile, and she folds her arms again.

"Yes, I thought that might be your reaction," she says dryly. "That's what usually happens, after all..."

"You still haven't told me who you are," I reply, suddenly realising that she never disclosed her name to me.

The woman smiles coldly. "No, I didn't, did I? I apologise." She pauses. "My name is Lady Mortis, child – and this is the last place you'll ever see."


	2. Rook Takes Pawn

Warren and I are sitting waiting in the rec. room, practicing our lines for when Rebecca and Logan come home. It's ten in the morning and neither of us has heard a word out of my daughter or her chaperone, so we're eager to exercise some parental control over the two of them – Warren is especially looking forward to tearing a few strips off Wolverine for not taking good care of his little girl, and I want to make sure that Rebecca understands that staying out all night without so much as a phone call isn't acceptable. All of these feelings are fuelled by the horrible sinking sense of worry that's been brewing in me since I woke up this morning – that Warren and I both felt when we realised that our daughter wasn't home after twelve hours.

Suddenly, Bobby shoves open the door to the rec. room with one hand, and jerks a thumb towards the front door with the other. "I think you guys better come quick," he says breathlessly. "Logan just got back, and Rebecca ain't with him."

"What?" I say, disbelievingly. "What do you mean, 'Rebecca's not with him'?" I don't know why I'm even asking the question, seeing as my telepathy already confirmed Bobby's statement before he'd finished making it, but apparently I need a third party to tell me what I already know so as to make it one hundred percent certain.

Bobby points towards the front door again. "I mean Logan's standing out there looking like he's gone ten rounds with the freakin' Hulk, and your kid ain't with him, Betsy!" he says, his voice getting more and more agitated. Not waiting to hear any more, Warren and I push ourselves off our seats and rush out to meet Logan, shoving Bobby abruptly out of the way so that we can get to the front door as soon as possible. Bobby doesn't complain, instead just shifting aside as quickly as he can, and Warren and I find Logan standing at the door of the mansion. His clothes are torn and bloodstained, and his hair is even more dishevelled than it usually is. Predictably, he has no cuts or bruises to go with the stiff brown marks that pepper his shirt, but there is something in his eyes that looks like it affected him far worse. That doesn't concern me, though, since just as Bobby said, my daughter is nowhere to be found.

Grabbing Logan by the collar, I shove him up against the wall angrily, my eyes aflame with anger born from the worry that I've been feeling all morning. Strangely, Logan doesn't resist, but simply turns his face away from my gaze, enduring my fury as if he knows he deserves every bit of it. "Where is she, Logan?" I cry, shaking him urgently. "What happened to her?"

"I don't know, Betts," Logan replies, his gruff voice quiet. "She and I were at a bar and this… monster came out of a portal in the ceiling. I tried to stop it killing a guy, but it hit me so damn hard it knocked me out with one goddamn punch. I didn't come to until this morning, and when I did, all I could smell of Rebecca was some blood on the floor of the place." He can see my face streaking with even more anger, and he shakes his head. "There wasn't enough there for her to be in any danger," he says quietly. "My guess is, she got hit somewhere on her arm or her leg but it didn't do her much damage. The thing didn't want her dead. I think I remember hearing it say it'd come for her before I passed out completely, but I can't be sure. Everything after the thing hit me is kinda fuzzy."

"This is unbelievable," I say, incredulous, feeling my anger starting to seep out of the small box in the corner of my mind that I've tried to push it into. "Damn you, Logan! I trusted you, and you let me down – and now Rebecca is paying the price for it!"

Logan still won't look at me. "I know, kid, and I'm sorry –"

"That's not good enough!" Warren snaps, grasping for Logan's collar with both of his cobalt-blue hands. I can feel his anger equalling mine, his eyes filling with a terrible, ice-cold rage. "You think you can just apologise and make everything all right again? Rebecca's our kid – you think you can just magic her back home by telling us you're  _sorry_?" He shakes his head. "I should have known better than to leave her with you."

That makes Logan look up, his rough, unshaven face flaring with sudden defiance. "Don't you dare tell me what I should and shouldn't think, boy," he snarls. "It ain't like I went out there last night intendin' to lose your kid. So don't try to make me feel like crap, because I already do." He shrugs Warren's hands off him with a single movement, looking at him in disgust. "Don't let that jealousy go to your head, boy."

"Jealousy?" Warren says, incredulous. "What do you mean?"

Logan smirks. "Don't act so innocent, punk. I can smell jealousy all over you – you just can't stand the fact that Daddy's little girl would rather spend her Friday night with me than stay home with you –"

Logan doesn't get any further; Warren's right fist hammers into his compact jaw with the force of a gunshot, and the little man is staggered by the unexpected blow, spitting a mouthful of blood from his momentarily-torn bottom lip onto the expensive flooring of the hallway. Meanwhile, Warren is left nursing a badly-bruised hand, the skin already going an unhealthy purple. I can tell through our psychic rapport that at least two knuckles have been broken, or at least cracked, after having hit Logan's metal-reinforced cheekbone at precisely the wrong angle. Folding my arms, I give both men a scalding glare, making sure that they can both feel the utter disdain I have for their little spat. "Are you happy now?" I demand. "Grow up. Rebecca is in danger, and you're scoring points off each other. Go to hell, both of you…"

Angrily, I storm off, leaving Warren and Logan dumbstruck. I can feel bitter tears forming at the edges of my eyes, fuelled both by intense frustration and by the sensation that I'm completely helpless. Almost on autopilot, I wander through the mansion to the drawing room, where Rogue and Remy are taking care of Tom for me. When I push open the door with one listless hand, Rogue looks up from the sofa that she and Gambit are sitting on, and gives me what I can tell she hopes is an upbeat smile. "Hey, honey," she says, holding Tom out for me with her gloved hands. His two-month-old eyes focus fuzzily on me and he sneezes once, then once again. Under normal circumstances, I might have found that endearing. Right now, though, I haven't the time for it... which saddens me even more. "He's been a real darlin'. Didn't raise a peep or nothin' – did she, sugar?"

"Nope," Gambit says soberly. "Glad we could help, cherie. Any word from Logan yet?"

"He's home. Rebecca's not with him," I reply, dabbing at my eyes with my handkerchief. "Logan says she was kidnapped…" Walking towards the large glass pane in the wall opposite me, I look out onto the garden, watching clouds scud gently across the sky for a moment or two. "He didn't see where she was taken, though – whatever took Rebecca knocked him unconscious and took her while he was out cold."

"Oh, no…" Rogue puts her hands to her cheeks, drawing them down over her face slowly, cold horror etching itself on her thoughts. "I'm so sorry, Betsy."

"Don't be," I tell her, resolutely. "I don't plan on leaving Rebecca by herself for too long. She and I are linked by more than blood; I can still feel that she's alive in here." I nod down at my chest, against which Tom is nestled quietly (and inside which my heart is beating a rapid tattoo against my ribs), and continue "I'm going to find her –"

Just then, the relative silence in the room is almost ripped in half by a piercing shriek, unearthly and tortured, like sheet steel tearing. The air in the room starts to shimmer, as if it's being heated by something – and then, a large funnel-like portal begins to open in the centre of the high ceiling above Rogue, Remy and myself. I'm in a prime position to see what's inside the funnel, but nothing is really clear – there are blurry images of misshapen creatures higher up the sides of the funnel, but nothing is close enough to see properly… until something travels towards us increasingly quickly, its form taking on more definition as it hurtles closer, until it impacts in the centre of the room. Rising to its full height, I finally see what the thing really is, as the portal above it shrinks smaller and smaller until it vanishes. It – or rather,  _she_  – is a statuesque winged woman, her body lithe and supple to a supernatural degree, her wings rising above her head and ending in hooked black talons. Her skin is a strange purple, while her elaborately-plaited hair is waist-length and jet-black, and she wears little more than a thin loincloth wrapped around her waist, her full bosom displayed proudly and without shame. Her eyes are yellow and her pupils are like those of a snake, giving her gaze a hypnotic quality. Her face is possessed of a strange beauty that sends chills up my spine despite myself – her narrow nose and full lips seem to exude the same hypnotic quality as her eyes. She smiles at me, small fangs peeking over her lips, and for the first time I notice that the air shimmers around her slightly, a sweet musky odour enveloping her completely and flowing off her body into the surrounding area. The smell makes my eyes water a little, and I stumble towards the chair in front of me so that I can prop myself up again, the stench causing my knees to fold for a moment or two. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Rogue and Remy are being affected in the same way as I am, even through Rogue's superhuman, half-alien physiology and Gambit's explosive bioenergy. The two of them look drunk on whatever the woman's scent contains, their eyes vacant and glazed. I blink once or twice, trying to clear my own vision of the fuzziness that is filling it, but to no avail.

The winged woman sashays gracefully towards me, and even through my blurry vision I can see strange symbols etched onto her skin, gently writhing and pulsing with some arcane power. Their movement almost mesmerises me, drawing my gaze towards them almost compulsively as the scent of her musk addles my mind even further. "You don't need this toy," she whispers persuasively, gesturing with one long-fingered hand at Tom, the delicate claws on the ends of her fingers brushing against my arms as she slips my son out of my grasp, letting his head rest against her unfettered breasts. Dreamily, I watch her press him closer to her, as if I'm watching everything from somewhere outside my own skull. "Lady Mortis will be pleased with you, little one," she hisses softly to him, her silky tones soothing his soft cries with almost no trouble. A long, serpentine tongue flickers out of her mouth momentarily, gently brushing my son's face with its twin forks and leaving a long smear of pink slime on his cheek. "Don't be afraid." Then she clasps Tom closer to her chest and takes a few steps away from me, before she purses her full, black-painted lips and breathes out a sickly-sweet, lavender-coloured mist that envelops Rogue, Gambit and myself, expanding and filling the room almost instantly. It fogs my vision and makes my knees fold underneath me, my legs feeling like little more than soft jelly, and I can barely see her as she raises her gaze to the ceiling, the same vortex that brought her here yawning open above her as she does so. Once again, I can see the endless corridor inside it, but it doesn't register as it did before; I can barely tell what I'm seeing at this point, let alone make any concrete mental judgements. The woman looks back at me for a moment or two and smiles her reptilian smile, clutching Tom closer to her chest as she does so. "Sleep," she says simply, and the last thing I see before I fade into unconsciousness, along with Rogue and Remy, is her spreading her wings and flying back into the same gateway that she emerged from. I try to reach for her with sluggish fingers, but the darkness swallows me before my hands can fully respond.

_Tom…_

* * *

 

The darkness is smothering and all-consuming – I don't know which way is up and which is down. My limbs are flailing in all directions, but slowly, as if I'm suspended in glue. It feels as if I'm falling through treacle, almost, with no end in sight. Suddenly, a piercing white light slices through the gloom and burns it away as if it had never been there, and I feel ground (or something similar to ground, anyway) come up underneath me, driving the breath from my lungs as I slam into it abruptly. Trying to find my bearings, I find myself staring up into the grim and humourless visage of Merlin, who is looking down at me with a mixture of disdain, urgency and concern.

"Greetings, Braddock-child," he says in his ethereal, commanding voice. "The time has come, it would seem, to put my faith in you to the test."

"What… what do you mean?" I say, still unsure of myself here in this non-place. Merlin snorts and taps his staff on the "ground" once or twice.

"Is your memory so poor that you forget me so easily?" he asks. "I told you on your wedding night that you and your brother would have to face a threat to this world, did I not? That threat has arrived, child, and it has your blood-kin in her grasp. Your daughter was taken last night, and your son will be in her hands before you wake up."

Something breaks inside me when I hear those words. "Why should this be happening to them?" I ask, despair beginning to entwine itself around my thoughts like a choking weed. "Why did they get taken and not me?"

Merlin's expression hardens, and he makes a brief gesture with his right hand, making an image materialise between us. Around two feet tall, and extremely detailed, it appears to be that of a statuesque young woman clad in body-hugging black armour, her purplish-red skin, yellow eyes, and dark hair appearing strikingly similar to that of the twisted angel-creature that took my son. The only major difference is that where the angel's face was serene with divinely-inspired pleasure, her face is filled with a harsh, unyielding bloodlust. At her side hangs a long broadsword, its keenly-honed edges painted with intricate occult symbols, and her belt also hosts a pair of cruelly-serrated daggers, from which blood drips rhythmically. "This is the woman who has your children," Merlin says, before enlarging the image a little so that the woman's face comes into focus a little more clearly. "Her given name is Leela Taani, but she has been calling herself Lady Mortis for hundreds of years, ever since she slaughtered a Shi'Ar soldier in the hope of gaining the favour of the dark gods. She wishes to consolidate the power they granted her by another blood sacrifice – but this time she does not just want one sacrifice. There are ancient writings that tell of how drinking the 'blood of a family defiled' and reciting a certain blasphemous incantation will convey immortality to the person brave enough to attempt it – and in doing so will unleash cataclysmic forces that will tear reality asunder."

"But why  _my_  children?" I ask, hopelessly. "Why not somebody else's?"

"Put simply? Your blood, and by extension that of your children's, pulses with magical energy. Not just the magic of Otherworld, or of Spiral and Mojo, but that of the Crimson Dawn as well. Your life-essence is positively brimming over with arcane power, Braddock-child, and that makes it ideal for Mortis to reach her objective – true demon-hood." Merlin waves his hand and makes the image between us disappear abruptly. "But to do that, to gain the power she craves, she needs more than your children. She needs your blood, and that of your brother, as well as that of your husband and your brother's wife."

My anger turns to confusion, and I have to think hard to find a reason why Warren's blood should be so significant (Meggan's faerie origins are enough for me to know why she should be necessary, but Warren's part in this is still a mystery to me). "Warren? Why would she need Warren's blood?"

"Because you carry a piece of your husband's soul and life-essence inside you, Braddock-child," Merlin replies, although he is clearly disgusted with the idea of Warren being connected to me in any way, shape or form. "He is linked to the magical lifeblood of the Crimson Dawn through that fragment of his essential self, and so he is necessary. Your destinies are intertwined in more ways than one." He folds his hands together, the bony claws that form his fingers steepling in front of his face. "It would appear you have a choice to make, would it not?"

"Save my children or leave them to die?" I scowl. "That's no choice at all."

Merlin sighs. "I rather thought you would see things that way – it seems to be one of the only things that I find predictable about you. Very well, then: consider what the consequences may be if you throw yourself into Mortis' realm without any prior thought. If you try to rescue your children, and you fail, you will have handed her the very thing she needs. Is that truly what you want? Can you take that kind of chance?"

I narrow my eyes to slits. "Then I'll just have to succeed, won't I? I'm not changing my mind, Merlin – I'm getting my children back, and I'll be damned if you or anybody else gets in my way."

To my surprise, a slow smile spreads across Merlin's weathered features at that moment, and he nods appreciatively. "You're a brave girl," he says simply, his tone a lot more positive than it had been a second or so ago. "Foolhardy, but brave nevertheless. Good. You'll need it, if you are to do what has to be done." Then, he glances above his head and nods. "You had better wake up, Braddock-child. Time is running out, wouldn't you say?"

With that, he snaps his fingers, and I feel my thoughts returning to my body like water rushing down a plughole, the white fog that surrounds me disappearing into a hazy, unfocused blur. An instant later, I sit up, sharply gasping for breath, not quite sure what has just happened, and it's a few moments before I can see and sense that Logan and Warren are knelt beside me. Warren is clutching my fingers with his uninjured hand, the other wrapped in thick bandages, while Logan's face is etched with a deep, overriding concern. Before I can say anything to either of them, though, blood rushes abruptly to my temples and I have to sink back onto the floor again. Warren and Logan immediately start forwards, making as if to help me back up to a sitting position, but I wave them off angrily. "Don't," I say simply, shrugging off their hands with as much strength as I can muster. "I don't need any help from you – either of you. Not now." Glancing over to my right as I push myself up against the nearest wall, I can see Rogue and Remy, who are similarly groggy and disoriented from whatever the creature that took Tom did to us. Abruptly, Gambit begins retching discoloured, blood-streaked vomit onto the expensive carpeting, and Rogue instantly forgets her own fatigue to scramble over to her boyfriend's side and stroke his sweat-caked forehead gently, holding his sweat-soaked hair away from his face while he heaves acrid, stinking pink sludge onto the floor.

"Breathe easy, honey. You're going to be okay," she says urgently – a frantic look coming over her face as she does so, indicating that she doesn't believe what she's saying in the slightest. "You'll be fine, you'll see. I promise." Part of me wants to stay, to help him recover from whatever it is that's affecting him – but another part, the larger, stronger part, wants to pursue my children's kidnappers and make them pay for what they've done to me, and to my family. There is a coldness settling into my guts that I'm finding hard to resist… and worse, I don't think I even want to.

Not right at this moment, anyway.

I push myself to my feet with slow, agonising movements, feeling every tormented muscle screech in protest, and begin to make my way towards the door, my lips set in a tight line and the muscles of my jaw bunched and taut under the skin of my cheeks. Warren doesn't let me go far before he touched me on the arm and says "Betsy… where are you going?"

"Chinatown," I say simply. "I'm going to find Gomurr the Ancient."


	3. Queen To Knight Five

The smell is the first thing that I recall about this place. It's a blend of sulphur and blood – and, oddly, roses, as if the Crimson Dawn is trying to offset its own gore-stained, metallic odour with something a little less… visceral. In direct contrast to that one single touch of softness, the shadowed walls drip with ichor like opened veins, and the light is noticeable only by its near-absence. Across the bridge in front of me, sacs of embryonic life-energy hang behind a large throne made of black granite, upon which sits the object of my search. I can feel him sat there, his back towards me, as I'm sure he can feel my presence too, as well as that of the gaggle of X-Men that I know have been following me since I left the mansion (but who are still some way off yet). The Crimson Dawn never lets go of those it has touched, and we are all connected to each other through it – when I became an Undercloak, however briefly that occurred, I knew the thoughts of all the other Undercloaks as well, to a far greater degree than if I had simply read their minds. Fortunately, it's only when I'm in close proximity to somebody with the mark that the Dawn starts to pull at us, so it's thankfully a rare occurrence at all other times. I walk confidently towards the throne, my stride no less diminished for the hour of trekking I had to do to get here – Chinatown is a big place, easy to get lost in – and judging by the amount of time I had to spend following my instincts, the Dawn likes it that way. When I finally approach the throne, I kneel before it without thinking, the left side of my face burning with a feeling almost like longing; even though my tattoo has disappeared along with my Asian body, I still feel the Dawn tied to my soul – and as such, I am apparently inexorably bound to show my respect to its Proctor, even in a situation like this. I stay knelt at the foot of the throne until the small figure sat upon it says simply "You can get up now, you know."

Feeling the impulse to kneel melt away instantly, like ice on a hot plate, I push myself to my knees and stand, regarding Gomurr the Ancient with a contemplative expression. "You know why I'm here, I suppose," I begin, "so why don't we skip the formalities and get right down to business?"

Gomurr smiles slightly, lacing his fingers together so that the symbols of the Dawn on his hands cast a faint light on his red robes. "I like you, Psylocke. You remind me of me, back when I was Gomurr the Impetuous. Except you're taller, and –"

"Don't start, Gomurr," I say, my tone slow and insistent as my hands begin straying towards the twin katana blades strapped to my shoulders. "Not now."

The little man looks almost disappointed for a second or two, before he shrugs his shoulders and lets his bright expression fade into something a little more serious. "Very well – as you wish. I know why you're here, Miss Braddock, and I know what you're going to ask of me."

"Then you should know why I won't leave here until you give it to me, shouldn't you?" I reply, acidly, before drawing one of my blades and examining its cutting edge in such a way as to make the consequences of not doing as I ask as plain as possible. "Don't make me wait." Running my thumb up the sword's length to test its strength, I feel the cold steel bite hungrily into my flesh and drink eagerly of the thin trickle of blood that spills down over its polished surface. "I need to find my children, and I don't need or want any delays, do you understand me?" The blood drips sporadically off the sword and spatters on the earthen ground, hissing as it does so. Small wisps of crimson vapour rise from the small marks the blood has left, coalescing as they do so into a collection of smoky tendrils which curl around my legs and rise up my body, swirling almost like a living thing. They flex like claws and then dart for my nostrils, filling my lungs with their acrid odour, and, as I hack and cough to try to clear my throat of their stinging touch, Gomurr does nothing but watch me impassively from his throne.

"I'd have warned you about that," he says flatly, "but I thought you might enjoy a physical demonstration instead." He clears his throat and then sits forward, unfolding a finger towards me like an annoyed schoolteacher. "You should never spill blood around here – not unless you really mean it. The Dawn never stops thirsting for fuel to feed itself." He shrugs, giving me one of his toothy smiles as I spit thick gobbets of copper-flavoured saliva onto the ground in disgust. "It needs to replenish itself from time to time, just like any other living thing. Think of it as a vampire bat for the soul." He hops down off his throne and walks towards me, his hands clasped behind his back, and then gestures towards the pulsing veins of the Dawn, the marks on his palms glowing in time with the scarlet light that washes off the walls. "I can help you find your children, Miss Braddock – the Dawn is good at that – but you cannot face Mortis alone. She'd have you skinned and drained of blood, or worse, before you could blink, if you were to try and face her by yourself. You need some of that back-up that's heading this way, I'm afraid – and more than that, you and your husband need to be together to get the gateway to Mortis' dimension open. Both of you will need to give the Dawn a little of your blood as a sacrament to help it bridge the gap between this world and hers. Here; see for yourself." He takes my hands in his bony fingers, and then presses the glowing tattoos in the centre of his palms firmly against my skin. As he does so, I feel the burning in my face that I felt before, only it's stronger this time, more virulent – but with the pain comes an understanding of what it will take to power a doorway to the place my children are being held. My eyes flicker open and closed rapidly for a minute or so as knowledge that no mortal mind was meant to know floods into my skull, like water smashing through a burst dam. I can taste the iron flavour of blood in my mouth as I bite my tongue involuntarily, and my nose starts to bleed as well, a persistent trickle of blood flowing down over my lips and onto my chin.

The price is worth it, though, and when my vision has cleared I know what I'm facing, and I know that I can't hope to fight it alone. I need Warren beside me, and I need my brother with me, too. I had wanted to keep Brian as far away from this whole situation as possible, since if he weren't with me, then the chances of Mortis getting her claws on all the pieces she needed for her bloody purposes would have been dramatically reduced – but then again, I realise now that a woman able to pick me and my children out of an entire planet's worth of human beings would have little trouble doing the same for my brother. I can only hope that she hasn't done it already, or this is going to be a waste of time.

"You need to contact your brother, Miss Braddock," Gomurr says, clearly having heard my thoughts despite my not consciously transmitting them. Something else to thank the Dawn for, I suppose… "He and his wife will need to know what's happening, or they'll be taken by surprise, just like your children were. And I really don't imagine that that sour-faced old goat Merlin would be too happy to have his golden boy kidnapped, do you?" He waves a hand at a collection of bulbous growths on the wall, which then ooze together into a single, unified mass. The surfaces of the new object are glassy and smooth, and Gomurr gestures at it again. "Here. Use this to contact them – for one thing, it'll be faster than trying to find a payphone around here, and for another, your telepathy isn't exactly built for long-distance communication." He ushers me forward and instructs me to put my hands on the globe's flawless exterior. "Just relax and think of Brian," he assures me solemnly. "It'll do the rest for you."

Taking his word for it, I close my eyes and visualise my brother in my mind. Almost instantly, I feel a subtle sense of power radiating from the orb beneath my fingers, and I sense my mind expanding and unfolding in all directions at once, like an unlocked puzzle box. My telepathy feels as if it's sliding through the shadows that surround Gomurr and me, just as I physically used to when I bore the mark of the Dawn. For a second or so, I feel as if I am weightless, and then I feel a hand reaching out from the ether to touch my mind. When it connects with me, I feel the confused but unmistakable mental imprint of Brian, clawing at my telepathic presence as if he is afraid of what's happening.

 _Brian?_  I ask, uncertainly, at which point I can sense Brian calming down almost instantly.

 _Betsy?_  Brian replies, his mental tone sounding greatly relieved. _How are you doing this? I thought you couldn't reach this far telepathically?_

 _Long story. Let's just say I had a little help,_  I say, my voice flat.  _Look, Brian, I'll make this quick: you're in danger, and so is Meggan. My children have been taken by somebody after Braddock family blood, a woman called Lady Mortis, and they're going to come after you and Meggan as well._

 _Why?_  Brian's mental voice seems as puzzled by this entire affair as I am – for which I can't really blame him. I still can't understand this whole affair totally, either.  _What do they need our blood for?_

 _Demonic rituals of ultimate power, threatening all that's good and right in the universe… the usual,_  I tell him sourly, any black humour that I might otherwise have found in the situation sadly absent.  _Look, Brian, I'm going to be blunt with you – I need you and Meggan here with me. I need both of you to help to get my children back, because I don't know exactly how hard it's going to be to crack this woman's defences._

 _How quickly do you want us there, Betsy?_  Brian asks with barely a pause. I can tell, even at this distance, that an intense anger is beginning to bubble beneath the surface of his mind.  _Just say the word._

That makes me pause, and, in a telepathic tone that's both small and humble, I say  _Help me, Brian. Help my children. Get here as soon as you can._

 _I'll do my best, butterfly,_  Brian says, his telepathic voice just the same as the time when we were teenagers, just after our parents died. I can almost feel his brotherly embrace again, and it makes me cry against my will, the hot tears spattering on my fingers as our psychic contact is broken. Sniffing back the insistent sorrow, I glance at Gomurr before pointing to one of the lengthy shadows on the wall, a sudden flash of inspiration plucking at my mind in the midst of my pain.

"How far can the shadows take me from here?" I ask, quiet determination reasserting itself in my voice.

"As far as you need them to, Miss Braddock," Gomurr says simply, before giving me another wide smile. "When you're touched by the Dawn, the world is your oyster. Your brother should be rather surprised to see you so quickly, I'd imagine." He steps aside, so that the path to the largest shadow in the room is clear. The darkness is vast, covering fully half the walls, and within its oily black surfaces I can sense pieces of the essences of the Undercloaks that have travelled through it, the fragments calling me like screams in the night. Walking towards it with resolute determination, I stretch out my hand and feel the familiar hard pumping of my heart as my fingers sink into the darkness up to the wrist, almost sucking the rest of my body in behind it as the Dawn's magic finds all the little crevices of my soul and fills them with flowing, liquid blackness. For a moment, it almost feels as if my body has ceased to exist, completely absorbed into the shadows, but then I can feel an end to the journey in sight. Reaching out with hands that have become enveloped in cloying blackness, my alabaster skin gone midnight-dark and crimson veins pulsing hotly in my arms, I tear open a hole in the formless void around me and pull myself out of the shadows before collapsing to my knees in front of my surprised brother, my lungs heaving from the effort of travelling so far so quickly.

"My God, Betsy…" Brian breathes as he kneels beside me, drapes one of my arms around his broad shoulders and gently helps me to rise to my feet. I slip from his strong hands momentarily, my legs feeling like melting rubber, and almost sink back to the floor before Brian catches me deftly and prevents me from falling into a heap at his feet. "What have you done to yourself?"

I cling to Brian for a moment or two, breathing deeply until I feel confident enough to stand by myself. "I did what I had to, Brian," I say, my voice hoarse. I can still feel the shadows coating the inside of my throat, their sour taste filling my mouth and making me feel ill. "I need you with me now – I couldn't wait, not with my children's lives at stake."

Brian nods in understanding, and then guides me towards a chair, where I slump gratefully, my heartbeat starting to slow to something approaching an acceptable speed. "Stay here," he says quietly. "I'll get Meggan."

I grip his sleeve for a moment to stop him leaving. "Thank you, Brian," I whisper. Brian pulls his mouth tight for a moment or two before he nods at me and silently leaves the room, letting me take stock of what this trip has cost me. My hands are shaking, and I can feel sweat at the edges of my hairline. My whole body aches, burning with dull but persistent pain, and I can feel the darkness inside me snarling and pulling at its chains, as if it knows that my resistance to it has been weakened. Glancing at my right hand, I am horrified to see that my nails have been turned the same oily black as the shadows I travelled through to get here, small tendrils of dark energy radiating out from them and trailing up my fingers like cobwebs. Frowning, I concentrate as hard as I can, glaring at my hand as I do so, and the tendrils seem to retreat a little, as if they've realised that their window of opportunity has passed. I know, though, that I am living on a knife-edge here – one misstep, one slip of concentration, and the Dawn will reclaim its most prized Undercloak with the same primal glee as it did the last time I was its slave. And this time, I know that I will not be able to resist its allure – something inside me has burst, and I don't know if I'm strong enough to fix it at this point. Swallowing resolutely, I steel my nerves as best I can, feeling my stomach settle a little, and I begin waiting for Brian and Meggan to return, drumming my fingers against the arms of the chair and biting my lip impatiently. Every second that goes by feels like ten years.

After only a short while, which has felt like aeons, Brian comes back to where I'm sitting, holding Meggan's hand tightly in his own. "Brian told me what happened," Meggan says simply, as she reaches out with her free hand to touch the back of my fingers. "What do you need us to do?"

"Just come back to New York with me," I say, gesturing to the shadow in the corner of the room. "That's how I got here, and that's how I intend to get back. I can take the two of you with me, but you need to try and stay in contact with me all the time. The shadows hate it that way, but it's necessary if you don't want to become lost in them for the rest of your life – which, since time is fairly non-existent in there, will be a very long time indeed. Do you understand me?"

Brian and Meggan nod soberly, and so, satisfied that I have got my point across, I take their hands in mine and walk slowly towards the largest shadow in the room. I hear Meggan's sharp intake of breath as the three of us melt fluidly into the substance of the darkness and end up back inside the non-place that I used to travel here in the first place.

The first thing I notice is that while I am one with the blackness again, my skin turned a depthless ebony, Brian and Meggan shine like torches on a dark night. They are beacons of light here, and the shadows don't like it one bit. I can feel their anger at that fact that I have brought such alien creatures to them, and they thrash wildly around us, almost as if they are in pain. One of them angrily lashes a formless, pod-like limb at me, trying to make me let go of Brian and Meggan so that they can be hurled headlong into the sides of the tunnel we're travelling through. I manage to keep my grip on them – barely – and we pass by the maddened creature with no further incident, until I am able to find a suitable moment to nod at the side of the tunnel, bisecting the wall and letting the three of us return to reality.

Once more, I'm hit by a wave of tiredness and nausea from the strain of travelling so far in such a short time. My right hand goes cold again, the oily black on my nails creeping quickly back up my fingers as it senses my momentary weakness. This time, it manages to reach up to my mid-forearm before I'm able to force it back to a relatively dormant state, and I can instantly tell that it's going to take a formidable effort of will to keep it contained from here on in. Here, I'm helped by the fact that being closer to the Dawn makes me more physically able to shrug off the darkness inside me (although, paradoxically, the impulse to let go and to surrender to the shadows has also become stronger as a result), but I'm not sure about elsewhere.

I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, I suppose.

Closing my eyes for a moment or two, I take a deep, cleansing breath and try to focus my thoughts on what needs to be done next, and it's then that I sense that Brian, Meggan and I are not alone – Gomurr is here, of course, but there are also multiple thought signatures loitering at the entrance to the giant, sprawling chamber in which we are all stood, and chief among them is Warren. Flanking him are Sam, Bishop, Logan, and Scott – which surprises me a little. Scott, Sam and Logan I can understand, but Bishop is a new one on me, considering he's never really connected with Rebecca on any level; in fact, he's often gone out of his way to avoid her, simply because he doesn't think having a product of Sinister's genetic engineering underneath the mansion's roof is a wise idea. He's called her "a security risk" more than once, too, which I've frequently taken him to task about – so what he's doing here, I'm not sure. In any event, they're still at the entrance to the cavern that houses the Dawn, so they can't see Brian, Meggan or me just yet.

"Stay here," I say, motioning to Brian and Meggan to remain where they are. "I'm going to talk to my husband." Brian and Meggan nod, understanding implicitly why I have to do this by myself.

"All right, Betsy," Brian replies quietly. "We'll be waiting."

It takes me very little time to cover the distance between the cavern's doorway and where Brian, Meggan and I had been standing previously, and when I've done so, I can see that Warren hasn't paused to have his hand properly bandaged up – instead, he's wearing a flexible Shi'Ar-designed cast that has small but potent pain-suppressors built into the wrist section, its advanced techno-organic structure apparently allowing him fairly unrestricted freedom of movement while simultaneously cushioning and supporting the broken bones of his knuckles.

"Hello, Warren," I say, frostily, my hands placed squarely on my hips. "I see you and Logan put your differences aside. How noble of you."

"Come on, Betts, don't do this to me," Warren says, holding both hands out to me in a pleading gesture. "I love Rebecca as much as you do, and so does Logan. Don't you think we'd both concentrate on that right now?"

I raise an eyebrow. "I don't know. What do you think, Sam?"

Sam blinks, clearly surprised at being addressed in this fashion. "I think we're all here for one thing, ma'am," he says, soberly, after taking a moment or two to structure his thoughts. "Like Warren said, I think we'd all better concentrate on that for now."

He has a point, I suppose, but I'm not going to let Warren and Logan off the hook that easily. "And what about you, Bishop? Why are you here? You've made no secret of how you feel about Rebecca – why would you bother coming to help her?"

Bishop slides his energy rifle into its holster on his back, folds his scarred arms across his muscular chest and locks his steely, faintly haunted gaze with mine. "I'm here because your husband asked me to come, Elisabeth," he says in his deep, resonant baritone. "He wanted me to give this squad of X-Men some extra tactical backbone." He extends one finger towards me then, in an admonishing gesture. "Don't mistake this for a change of heart – I still don't think keeping Rebecca at the mansion is a good idea, but because she's the daughter of a brother X-Man, I'll do my best to help get her back. Does that answer your question?"

"I suppose so," I reply, flatly, before I turn smartly on one heel and begin walking back to where Brian, Meggan and Gomurr are standing. Before I get very far, though, I feel Scott's strong hand on my shoulder, stopping me from going any further.

"Don't do this, Betsy," he says, his voice almost unreasonably calm despite the urgency of the situation. "Don't shut us out."

I round on Scott angrily, jabbing my index finger in his face. "Why not?" I snarl, fury spilling from my mouth like poison. "All my husband and best friend could do when this started was fight each other like spoiled children. Is that the kind of support you want to give me?" I pause, letting the impact of my words sink in – but before Scott can give voice to the response I can feel brewing in his skull, I say "If that's the case, then I don't need any of you." Even as I speak the words, I'm well-aware that I need Warren, at least, but I also know that this needed to be said. If I can't count on people who I'm supposed to trust with my life – and the lives of my children, as well – then I might as well be alone. It's certainly felt that way sometimes.

A pregnant silence holds sway for a few moments, until Gomurr the Ancient arrives to break it in his own unique way. "Hello, Logan. Long time no see," he says, grinning at his old acquaintance with little regard for the rest of us. Logan simply curls his lip disdainfully and doesn't reply. "Still the same, I see," Gomurr observes. "Not that it matters, anyway…" He turns his attention towards me, and gestures towards where I had left Brian and Meggan. "Your other guests were getting a little restless, Miss Braddock," he says, matter-of-factly, "so I told them that they'd be better off coming here." Sure enough, after a few moments Brian and Meggan show themselves, walking past the twisted, blackened nubs that pepper the interior of the Dawn's home with more than a little trepidation. GomurrHe draws a small sacrificial bowl from his robes, its interior carved with intricate mystical designs, before holding it up for me to see. "I'll need you to drain some of you and your husband's blood in here," he continues, his tone becoming infinitely more serious. Warren's ears prick up at that, and he steps forward, a frown creasing his handsome features.

"I'm not sure I understand," he says bluntly. "Why would you need my blood?"

"The Dawn can help you find your children, Mr Worthington, but it won't do that without getting a little Scooby Snack first," Gomurr says. "It likes blood, so you're going to have to give it blood. Them's the breaks, I'm afraid."

Warren swallows, then nods resignedly, as if he knows not to question Gomurr any further. Certainly, after having given pieces of himself to the Dawn twice before, he should know that the Dawn won't do something for nothing. "All right," he says quietly. "How much do you need?"

"The Dawn will decide how much, Mr Worthington. Pray it doesn't decide to take everything you've got," Gomurr says, before handing him an exquisitely-carved ceremonial dagger. Setting the bowl down on a small boulder before Warren and me, he steps back and waits for us to cut ourselves. I draw one of my katana blades and slice a perfectly straight line along the inside of my palm, wincing a little as the deceptively delicate edge of the sword draws a scarlet line in my skin. That done, I hold my hand upside down over the bowl and wait for the drops of blood from the wound to spatter on the elegantly-carved wooden surface. Warren follows suit, cutting his palm open and letting the blood flow gently into the bowl. Once both of us have done that, the real meat of the ritual seems to begin: Gomurr begins to offer prayers to the Dawn in a language I've never heard before (even when I was an Undercloak), and from the surface of the bowl rise twirling columns of smoke, similar to the ones that encircled me earlier. They make beelines for the wounds on the palms of my husband and me, feeding eagerly on the blood that drips from them. They take and take and take, drawing more blood from the wounds than I'd thought was possible, until they finally withdraw, sated. When they have released me, I can't do anything else but fall against Warren, my legs feeling weak as a newborn kitten's. Warren seems to feel the same way, so we hold tightly onto each other, lending each other what little strength we can muster until we feel able to stand on our own. Warren looks at me with exhausted eyes and says hoarsely "I hope this works."

"Me too," I whisper, my throat dry as sand.

As we stand together, recovering, I see Gomurr finishing his incantations as the Dawn digests the last of the blood it has taken from us. He throws a handful of off-white powder into the veins of the Dawn, and raises his arms as high as they will go. As he does so, a thin sheet of blackness rises from the floor, similar to the shadows I used to teleport through, but infinitely more powerful – I can feel the magical energy radiating off it in waves, and I can tell that the others do as well. The magic is not just the Dawn's energies, but those of somewhere else entirely – presumably the place where Rebecca and Tom are being held.

_Only one way to find out, I suppose…_

Gripping my husband tightly by the hand, I step into the portal.


	4. Queen To Bishop's Rook Three

The portal spits me out onto a blackened rocky plateau, pulling me free of my husband's hand, and I sprawl clumsily onto the ground, tiny scrapes opening instantly on my skin and beginning to sting painfully. Behind me I can sense the others doing the same – Bishop takes the impact on his shoulder and rolls smoothly into a crouch, his energy rifle raised and ready to fire almost immediately, while Sam, Brian, Meggan and Warren kill their momentum and find their feet thanks to quick uses of their respective mutant powers. Logan, meanwhile, merely endures the momentary bruising that peppers his flesh, but Scott has to follow Bishop's example in order to escape without significant injury. "Everybody okay?" he asks when he's found his breath. In response, Sam raises a hand wordlessly, Bishop nods (once he is satisfied that the area is secure enough for him to relax), and Logan merely lopes off in the direction of the cliff face that lies off to our right, while the rest of the group simply murmurs agreement with Scott's statement.

I follow Logan over to the cliff face in order to see what he's so interested in, and below us I see a throng of misshapen, warped creatures of all shapes and appearances, all of whom are milling around a raised stone dais. Upon the dais is stood Lady Mortis' ornate white marble throne, to which Rebecca has been chained, and alongside her is the bloodstained stone plinth upon which my son is resting. I can't see my daughter's face in order to make sure that it's her, but I can sense her thoughts, and that's confirmation enough for me. Walking up behind me, his massive muscular frame making little more noise than a stalking cat, Bishop touches my shoulder. When I turn to face him, he flips open a compartment on his belt and hands me a small metal device. It has one large viewing window on one side, and a large circular lens on the other, which seems to have automated focusing qualities. "Magnoculars," he says simply. "They'll give you a better view of what's going on down there."

Putting the device up to my eyes, I can instantly see the monsters in the valley below at about three times normal magnification, the magnoculars' mechanical innards whirring constantly as I pan across the chamber, until I get to where Rebecca is kneeling. I feel my breath catch in my throat before I look at her, but she looks fairly unharmed – relatively speaking, anyway. From here, it's impossible to tell what kind of condition she or Tom is really in, but I'm hoping that Mortis will have kept them mostly unharmed for now. What kind of sense would it make to kidnap them and then instantly have them murdered, after all?

A droplet of something splatters on Logan's shoulder just then, startling him – and the rest of us, if the truth be told. He glances at it, surprised, before another droplet hits him squarely in the face, leaving a long red smear on his left cheek. He raises his blunt fingers towards it, wiping it off and then taking a cursory sniff. "This is blood," he mutters. He sounds a touch unsurprised about what the substance is, but is still fairly puzzled as to its origin. "I ain't bleedin', an' I know none of you is, either… so where'd it come from?"

"Um, Logan? Look up there." Pale-faced, Sam points a gloved finger towards the ceiling of the chamber. All of us follow where he is pointing, and all of us are struck completely dumb by what we see. Sprawling across the roof of the chamber, like a giant cobweb made of mangled, sharp steel, is a huge metal framework which is bolted crudely to the rocky ceiling with massive rivets. It looks almost organic in the way that it grows and twists new extensions out of itself, but the razor edges of the frame belie that assessment. It stretches for miles, it seems, clinging to the upper edges of the cavern like a parasite.

And from it hang dozens, hundreds, of creatures – some human, some not; some there for punishment, some not – who are bound to it by further twists of knife-like metal. It cuts into their flesh as they dangle crucified from the frame, slicing into their bodies as they writhe in pain – and sometimes, disturbingly, pleasure. Even as I watch, the frame shifts position, seeming to flow like water, cutting into fresh body parts with horrifying ease and causing the faint chorus of moans raining down from the ceiling to intensify briefly. Crawling over the victims like locusts are swarms of tiny, green-skinned imps, who dip their fingers into weeping, suppurating wounds mischievously and suck their claws dry of the infected pus with twisted glee. And from those same infected wounds falls a sparse but regular shower of blood, like that which still marks Logan's shoulder and cheek. The blind horror of it strikes every one of us dumb for a long time.

Finally, Scott clears his throat, trying not to let his gaze drift back to the poor tormented souls above us. "We need a plan," he says, his voice a little shaky. "We can't just run down there without thinking – we'd be ripped apart before we got within a hundred metres of Rebecca or Tom."

"Agreed," Brian says, nodding, before he looks at either side of the cavern's bowl-like structure, thoughts beginning to race through his head. "Wait…" he continues, before pointing to the raised ridges of stone. "Those are pretty ideal cover positions. If we could put some long-range power behind them to give close-up fighters like Logan some support –"

"– we'd have a better chance of getting to the kids," Warren finishes, before he gestures at Scott and Bishop. "You guys are pretty much the only choices we've got in that regard. You sure you can give us enough juice?"

Sam raises his hand. "Um… I can use my blast field like that in a pinch, Mr Worthington. You need extra coverin' fire, I can give to ya." I can tell that he would rather rescue Rebecca himself, but I can also sense that he realises the severity of the situation demands a less emotional response.

_Thank you, Sam,_  I send to him. In response, he simply nods quietly at me, which says more to me than anything else he could have done.

"Good idea, Sam," Scott says, pulling at the edges of his gloves as if he is indulging in one of his pre-combat rituals. "Right now, I think we need all the help we can get."

"So what should the rest of us do?" Meggan asks, her pretty, elfin features drawn into a deeply concerned expression, before Logan points at the floor of the cavern and then at the curling stone-sheathed pathways branching off from our position that lead down to it.

"See those?" he says gruffly. "There are plenty of 'em, and most of 'em are pretty well-concealed from the main chamber. If we're quiet, we can get down there pretty much under their noses." He takes a sniff of the air just then, as if he's testing it for something. "Better do it quick, though; those creeps down there look like they're gettin' restless…" He points towards where a small knot of hulking, scarlet-skinned monsters is starting to form, claws and teeth flying as the creatures begin tearing at each other, spraying their fellow beasts with luridly-hued gore and chunks of bone. Even from here, I can hear (and sense) their howls of twisted pleasure as they carve ugly, jagged wounds into each other's hides. The blood they've spilt becomes more paint for their already sodden and dripping skins, their claws daubing it in handfuls onto their muscular bodies. Elsewhere, meanwhile, squat, hunched-over creatures dressed in ragged, hooded robes sit rocking silently back and forth, picking obsessively at their diseased, necrotic skin and playing with the clouds of impossibly-large plague flies that circle around them. Misshapen, mindless monstrosities that don't even have anything approaching a single solid form pull themselves across the stone floor of the chamber with curved talons or suckered tentacles, their snapping, lamprey-like mouths ringed with razor-teeth and dripping with strings of discoloured saliva, and their flailing limbs scything through the air like knives.

The madness that I see below me just serves to reinforce why I have to get to Rebecca and Tom as quickly as possible. "I'm going down there," I say, my voice decisive, focused. The oily blackness on my right hand sings at the certainty of bloodshed, its cold touch accentuated by its expectant hunger, and I can even feel it extend a few hopeful tendrils down the length of my fingers, as if it hopes that I will surrender to it once I am concerned with other things.

I clench my hand angrily, forcing the darkness back to my fingertips. "No," I hiss, feeling the chill in my hand recede just a touch. "You will  _not_  have me. Not now."

"Betts?" Logan asks, concerned. "You say somethin'?"

"No," I say again, stalking towards the closest pathway and drawing both of my katana blades, curling my hands around their elegantly-sculpted handles and feeling their comforting weight reassure me a little. "Nothing." Padding stealthily across the cliff to the nearest pathway, I begin my descent, followed in single file by the others, with Warren understandably staying closest behind me, his hands clenched and his jaw set into a firm line. I can feel his teeth grinding together through our psionic rapport, along with perhaps unavoidable feelings of anticipation and apprehension. As I move down towards the floor of the cave, Scott, Sam and Bishop take up their positions behind the rocky outcrops; I can feel them picking out targets already. Bishop picks the largest and strongest creatures, aiming his plasma rifle directly at their heads, while for his part Scott finds what he believes to be the swiftest amongst the mob and keeps his mind trained on finding their knees, and Sam merely resolves to use his powers on the most immediate threats that he can see, whatever their capabilities. It's a nice illustration of their differing approaches to leadership, I suppose – if they were tools, Bishop would be most like a war-hammer, heavy and brutal, while Scott is like a surgeon's scalpel, precise and economical, and Sam is like a Swiss army knife, always ready to do whatever he can to fix a problem.

Brian begins to follow me, and then stops, before saying "Betsy, perhaps it might be better if Meggan and I went this way." He points towards another passageway off to his right with his right hand. "If we were to try a pincer movement, it might give us a better chance of getting to Rebecca and Tom."

"Yes," Meggan agrees. "I think it's called 'divide and conquer', isn't it?" She holds out her hands, which begin to warp into long, sharp talons. Their razor edges glint in the dim light, indicating that perhaps Meggan is not the innocent, scatter-brained faerie I initially took her for. She grins at me as she sees my thoughts unwittingly ripple across my face. "Perhaps I could try being like you, just this once?" She opens her mouth a little wider, so that I can see her perfect, lily-white teeth elongating into a mouthful of deadly fangs. "Just in case," she says, pointing at her mouth with a lengthy, double-edged claw, her voice slightly altered by her new teeth, as she sees my expression change once again. Then she and Brian move towards the passageway that my brother had indicated just now. Brian clenches his fists before he descends into the passage itself, and then he looks back at me mutedly. "See you down there, butterfly," he says softly, before he and Meggan disappear.

"See you, Brian," I whisper, before my resolve returns, and I begin walking determinedly towards the route down to the cavern's floor, with Warren and Logan following behind me. When the three of us are hidden behind a screen of thick sandstone, I lead the way down the curling path, my telepathy helping me to judge when it's safe to move past the occasional large gaps in the stone walls. Beside me, Warren flexes his great wings and eases the techno-organic gauntlet on his right hand into a more comfortable position, wincing a little as he does so, and Logan simply extends his bone claws, before he begins sniffing the air and listening hard, his silence telling me more than anything he could say right now. The three of us walk slowly down the curving passageway until it begins to level out, the rancid, rotten-egg smell of the creatures beginning to filter up to us at the same time.

Abruptly, I hold my hand up, indicating that we should stop. I can sense a small group of creatures beginning to make their way to the mouth of the passageway. Their thoughts are more sophisticated than the primal, bloodthirsty urges of most of the horde, but are still full of depraved and vile images which burn my mind as they filter into my brain.

_Stay still,_  I say telepathically to both Warren and Logan simultaneously. _I'll try and hide us._ Concentrating, I put my hands to my temples and begin to create a telepathic illusion for the creatures to see, instead of the three X-Men that are really in the tunnel. As the creatures pad bestially up from the wide, yawning doorway at the bottom of the passage, I slide gently into their brains, like a stiletto dagger through flesh. The butterfly of my telepathy flutters into the centre of their twisted minds, telling them that there are no X-Men in their way, only some dislodged boulders.

As they shuffle up the sloping stone pathway, the scaly, insect-like creatures hesitate for a moment or two, their vision telling them one thing and their brains interpreting it as another. One of them growls softly, turning its compound eyes toward where Warren is standing as motionless as he can. Its growl becomes a roar then, and it throws its emaciated frame at my husband, its filthy claws outstretched and ready to tear into Warren's flesh. Realising my illusion has been shattered, I raise my katana, ready to deal the monster a killing blow – but Warren has swatted the creature aside with one of his great wings before my sword is anywhere near its objective. There is an ugly cracking of bones as the thing hits the side of the corridor, its diseased, paper-thin skin tearing like wet parchment and exposing fragile bones to the air. The other two creatures attack then, their vision clearing just as the other monster's had, and Logan and I are suddenly under threat once again. Logan ducks under one swiping claw, his right hand sweeping upwards in a tight arc, slicing off the outstretched arm at the elbow. Black blood gushes, splattering across Logan's face, but he doesn't seem to care. His eyes are empty pits of bottomless rage, and he endures another wild swing by the creature in order to drive both sets of claws right into the monster's chest, so hard and fast that they tear out of the creature's back, taking uneven lumps of distended, sickly internal organs with them. Logan stabs at the corpse until his rage is sated, ebon blood coating him up to his shoulders.

Meanwhile, I am matching my whirring, singing katana blades against the claws of the last beast. I aim a hacking slice at the leg of the monster, trying to hamstring it and make my job a little easier, but the blade's aim is knocked off by a scything kick from one of the fiend's splayed, bird-like feet, so that instead of finding flesh it thuds into the side of the passageway, embedding itself into the hard stone and sticking fast. The beast senses my momentary weakness and moves in for the kill, its clawed hands raised and its glittering eyes shining with bloodlust, but as it approaches, I use the blade in my free hand to carve a long, ugly cut into its side. It howls with pain, and staggers for a moment before it is able to balance itself again.

That moment is all I need to pull my sword out of the stone wall. Swinging the newly-freed blade, I feel its keen edge biting into the flesh of the creature's chest hungrily. Blood explodes from the wound, and as the thing staggers, air wheezing from a hole in its side, I strike with my other blade, decapitating my opponent in one swift stroke. The two pieces of the corpse fall a full metre apart, and I feel the exhilaration of battle tugging at my mind as I try to regain my breath. It's only then that I notice the fabric of my bodysuit is torn in more than one place, long scratches marking where the demon's talons found their mark. None of them are serious, but they're all bleeding, the blood that seeps insistently from them streaked with threads of swirling black.

Warren notices the odd colouration of my wounds when he has managed to suck some air back into his lungs, and points at them, concerned. "What's that?" he asks, his gloved right hand reaching out to touch my arm curiously.

I shrug him off, annoyed. "It's nothing, Warren. I'm fine." As if to belie my words, the darkness on my fingers chooses that moment to join up with the trickles of blood from a wound on my shoulder – and before I can force it back down again, the darkness' tendrils have found the blood. Instantly, my arm goes cold, the warmth of my flesh and blood replaced by the chill of a living shadow. It's all I can do to keep the blackness confined only to my arm, although I can already feel its insistent tentacles worming their way into my shoulder like vicious maggots beneath the sleeve of my suit, ready to exploit any potential weakness. I can sense the horror and shock in both Warren and Logan as their minds register what's happened to me.

"Betsy," Warren begins, his face gone an ashen shade of blue, "please tell me that's not what I think it is."

"I can't, Warren," I say, sighing and rubbing my eyes with my unaffected hand. "The Dawn wants me back, but it's not going to get me. End of story." I turn away from both men, moving stealthily down to the mouth of the tunnel and crouching behind a large boulder that has fallen across the entrance, partially blocking it. Looking out over the landscape in front of me, I can see Lady Mortis addressing her followers. Her voice is too far away to hear clearly, but I can sense the triumphant tone in her thoughts nonetheless.

Suddenly, she turns her head towards where Logan, Warren and I are standing. Even from this distance, I can see her yellow eyes glowing malevolently, as if she is anticipating an easy victory.  _Hello, Betsy,_  she says in my head, her psionic voice like ice water against my mind.  _Merlin sent you at last, did he? Good. I hate waiting… don't you?_

I can feel her words burning into my brain long after the telepathic contact has been broken, as if they were coated with acid. Shaking my head to try and clear it of Lady Mortis' poisonous influence, I stumble and fall against the side of the tunnel. Quickly, both Warren and Logan are there to help me to my feet, and as they help me pull myself back into a standing position, I gasp "She knows we're here."

"Crap," Warren says simply, and Logan nods in agreement as he pulls his mouth into a grim line, his only other action being to ready his claws. His silence speaks volumes, as usual.

My husband's assessment of the situation is proved accurate, too, when almost the entire host of mutants, demons and plague-ridden hooded freaks turns to face us.

And then they charge.

"Oh, crap," is all I can say.


	5. Knight Takes Bishop

The monsters charge towards us, claws and teeth outstretched and coated with thick, stinking mucus. Hulking, muscular beasts with leathery bat-like wings sprouting from their shoulders lead a charge of slithering, crawling beasts that have no eyes or mouths, but have leering, bloodthirsty expressions nonetheless. Oozing creatures that are more liquid than flesh leave stinking trails of pus and slime in their wake as they flow fluidly over the rocky ground, eager to get to where Warren, Logan and I are standing. I can hear their insane moans getting louder and louder every second, and I can feel their thoughts (such as they are) battering against my skull like a hammer. Beside me, I can sense Wolverine's eagerness to throw himself at the horde of misshapen creatures, to hack away at them with his claws until he is swamped. It's almost as visceral as what I'm sensing from the beasts in front of me, and I can feel Logan's control inching slowly beyond his grip. Nodding towards him, I say  _Stay calm, Logan. Trust my judgement._

In response, Logan simply growls and trains his eyes on the approaching beasts, trying to pick out the largest, most dangerous targets, and then sheathes and extends his claws twice within the space of thirty seconds. "Don't know how much longer I can just sit here, Betsy," he says, his voice clearly showing signs of strain.

"Times like this, I wish I still had my metal wings," Warren says by way of agreement. "You sure you know what you're doing, Betsy?"

"Absolutely," I say solemnly, keeping my eyes trained on the thralls of Lady Mortis as they thunder towards us on cloven hooves, thick, muscular feet and undulating, snakelike bellies. "Brace yourselves… this is going to get messy."

The monsters' approach begins to shake the ground. I can feel the heavy vibrations shivering their way up my legs and into my spine, causing me to tighten my grip on my katana blades reflexively. Forcing my tensing muscles to relax as much as I can, I watch the beasts charging towards us, and then turn to look at the passageway behind us. "Back up to the tunnel entrance," I say. "It'll give us a fighting chance if they're bottle-necked like that."

"Good idea, Betts," Logan says, loping back into the protection of the tunnel's oval mouth, his claws losing the gleam that the cavern's sickly red light had been casting on them. He hunkers down on his haunches, like a wolf sniffing a carcass, and smiles bestially. "This is gonna be fun," he continues, licking his lips in anticipation (his thoughts don't quite match his demeanour, but I think he's just trying to maintain a confident air for my sake). Reluctantly, Warren joins him, squaring his shoulders and keeping an eye trained on the distant Lady Mortis as she watches us, just as I am. The woman is watching us intently – obviously she doesn't want us dead, or we'd probably be dead already. No, I'm guessing that she wants us taken alive, which gives us a slight edge – not a big one, but an edge nonetheless. At this point I'll take what I can get.

The creatures are close now. I can see the ropes of drool strung from their fanged jaws, and the glittering malice in their eyes sings to me through discordant pulses of repugnant thought-energy. When they are close enough for the smell of their unwashed, disease-ridden bodies to assault my nostrils, I close my eyes and say _Now._

At my single telepathic command, Bishop, Cyclops and Cannonball rain energy blasts down on the creatures, establishing a solid barrier between them and Wolverine, Warren and myself. Behind the curtain of energy I can hear them howling in frustration and anger, and I can feel them screaming in pain as they hurl themselves bodily at it to try to break through, the smell of sizzling, rotten flesh wafting through the air like a thick mist. When the energy dissipates, its after-effects are startlingly obvious – injured creatures lie here and there, stinking steam rising off their broken bodies. Some of them are dead, missing arms, legs or heads, their corpses leaking hissing blood onto the ground. It scares me a little that I didn't react even though I felt each and every one of them die, their psychic death howls dissolving inside my mind like butter on a griddle.

Then again, the Dawn's agonising screams are drowning out virtually everything else at this moment. It begs me to cut loose, to throw myself into the thick of the creatures, to spill as much blood as I can. And right now, I can't say I feel inclined to deny it what it wants.

Almost within the space of a single heartbeat, the remaining creatures begin to hurl themselves at us once again, crawling and scrabbling over the bodies of their fallen comrades without a second thought. I meet one of the leading beasts head-on, using a sideways parrying motion of the blade clutched in my right hand to fend off a sweeping strike from one of its clawed paws, and then slicing with the other to hack through a thick, corded tendon in its left leg. Hamstrung, it stumbles to the ground and lies squealing and thrashing in fear as its lifeblood pumps onto the ground, black and viscous. It's no immediate threat to me, so I ignore it and concentrate on the next monster attacking me – a gelid mass of tentacles and poisonous spines that doesn't seem to have any definite nerve centre for me to attack psychically. It roars at me in a liquid, phlegm-choked voice, gurgling hate-filled messages as it sends two of its larger tentacles towards me. They wrap around my body, cinching tight around my waist and abdomen and squeezing hard. Seeing that I can't get free by myself, I try a desperate telepathic message to my closest comrade.

_Logan – help me –_

Snarling, Logan looks around from the body of the many-limbed mutant he has just killed, his rough, hairy face smeared with a long splash of green blood, and instinctively lashes out with one set of claws, slicing through one of the monster's tentacles with almost contemptuous ease. The affected limb flops to the floor and writhes for a moment or two before becoming still. Screaming in agony wordlessly, the creature quickly withdraws its other tentacle, leaving a long smear of slime around my waist, and then lashes out with it, knocking me flying to the ground. I hit the ragged stone floor hard, and I can feel my costume tearing and my skin being shredded, the surface of my shoulder, my side and my right thigh suddenly alive with pain, a large cut opening like a flower on my temple. And then… and then the pain subsides, to be replaced by a cold that I've only felt once before. The vision in my right eye disappears for a moment or so, the darkness beginning to flow over my eyeball as easily as it has the rest of the right side of my face. Then, after a moment or two, it returns – the same, but different. I can see things as I did before, but on top of that I can see the darkness in their souls as well. I remember the same sensations almost overwhelming me when I became Kuragari's Shadow Queen, but now they feel like an old friend. They frightened me before – before they took control of my mind, that is – but I know them for what they are now, and I'm not afraid.

I'm not afraid.

Through our rapport, I can feel Warren's abject horror as he catches sight of my savagely bisected face out of the corner of his eye, as he sees the ragged mixture of flesh and living shadow that my body has become. As he slams a demon into the side of the cavern's mouth with a single sweeping movement of his right wing, its snow-white feathers streaked with black ichor, he sends to me an urgent telepathic message.  _Betsy,_  he begins, urgency hanging heavy in his psionic tone,  _your face –_

 _– is the least of your worries,_ Warren, I tell him sternly. I'm in control. Don't worry.

Warren's thoughts clearly show that he's not convinced, which doesn't surprise me, but he reluctantly chooses to focus on something other than me for the moment, and so do I: I can see Brian and Meggan beginning to approach our position, hitting the horde of creatures from the rear and striking as hard and as fast as they can, catching the monsters completely by surprise. Flesh tears and blood splatters as Meggan's homemade claws hit whatever is stupid enough to stand its ground and fight her, and Brian's strength and power as Captain Britain makes short work of anything that stands in his way.

 _I see you made it, then,_  I send to Brian, with a touch of grim gallows humour.  _About time._

 _You noticed, did you, butterfly?_  Brian's response comes to me with a haggard undertone, his usually bright thoughts feeling soured and drawn. Just as he finishes speaking to me, he spins agilely on the point of one foot and with a scything kick catches a hunched-over beast-man in the temple, just below the thing's evilly-sharp, elaborately curved horns, crushing bone like paper and making the thing drop like a stone, its muscular bulk crashing heavily to the ground. In an instant, the body is being squabbled over by a scrabbling knot of pustule-covered green imps, who punch and kick at each other in order to be the first to gnaw on their prize. Brian steps quickly over the thing's fallen club (a thick, brutal thigh bone with rusty iron spikes nailed through it, which looks like it's been freshly torn from the leg of something even bigger and nastier than its former wielder) and hammers his fist into the throat of a scaly, bipedal lizard-like creature, pulping cartilage and ripping flesh without a second thought. I can sense his disgust at what he's having to do, but I can also sense the realist in him thinking that this is the only way he'll survive.

 _Scott, can you give me some more firepower?_  I send to Cyclops. _We're getting swamped down here._

 _I wish I could,_  Scott's telepathic voice comes back at me,  _but we've got our own problems right now. We're holding those things off for the moment, but I don't know how much longer we'll be able to do that._ There is a slight pause, and Scott's thoughts paint a searing picture of a hairy, gibbering beast dropping to the ground after its kneecaps have been completely shattered by quick, surgical optic blasts.  _Whatever you're going to do, Betsy, do it fast._

 _Easier said than done, Scott, but I'll try,_  I tell him, and break the connection. "Bad news," I shout, trying to make myself heard over the din of battle.

"Is there any other kind?" Warren says sourly, thundering the techno-organic cast on his right hand into the face of a hissing snake-man and shattering its eye socket, spraying watery green blood over his knuckles. Swinging my blades in two tight, slicing arcs, I decapitate the creature as it staggers back, its smashed face fountaining vital fluids, and then I speak again.

"Scott, Bishop and Sam are all tied up. We're on our own."

"Suits me fine, bub," Wolverine snarls, his voice little more than a throaty roar as he stabs both sets of claws into the meaty chest of a winged bat-creature almost a full two heads taller than him. It roars in irritation, as if he has merely pricked it with a blunt needle, and swats him against the tunnel's wall, smashing him along several feet of rock without any trouble whatsoever. Meggan and Brian rush to defend him as he lies on the rocky floor of the cavern, dazed and unable to move, Brian's super-strength knocking the huge beast down and Meggan's jury-rigged claws dicing several of the scavenging imps as they caper and dance towards her. She screams in frustration and rage as wet slices of flesh slide off her talons and splatter messily onto the floor, her anger at being boxed in like this broadcasting itself to everybody around her – especially me.

"I can't stay here," she growls. "This is crazy."

 _You won't get any argument from me there,_  I send to her, as I evade the lengthy, crocodilian jaws of a lizard-like creature similar to the one I just beheaded, its snapping razor-teeth trying to eviscerate me with one bite. As I sway gracefully out of its way, I grab the fluted, scaly spikes on its muzzle and bring a knee up hard into the bottom of its jaw, breaking bones and splintering teeth with equal ease. Then, as if on cue, fragments of enamel spill from its ruined gums, pattering on the floor of the cavern like hailstones. The creature howls in pain, raising a clawed hand to its shattered teeth to fumble at the bloody stumps which are now all that's left of its impressive set of fangs. Not hesitating for an instant, I hit it with a backhanded blow from my right fist, slamming the pommel of my katana blade into its temple and crushing the bone there like wet paper. Brained, the creature hits the ground with a meaty thud and then lies still, never to move again.

I can feel the Dawn writhing in almost orgasmic joy inside my head, delighting in each and every blow I land. And with each punch that finds its mark, every kick that hits precisely where I wanted it to hit, I can feel my resistance to it lessening. Every time I shed blood to defend myself, my desire to throw myself completely into the Dawn's cold embrace grows, and I can feel the liquid shadows that now form over half my body gurgling with joy as they sense my last few slivers of resolve slipping away inch by inch. And not only that, but every time my shadow-fist hits flesh, it leaves slithering tendrils of Dawn energy crawling over the impact point, as if I am inadvertently infecting others with its poisonous touch.

The smell of sorcery – a sickly-sweet, invasive scent that I have become used to since I was linked to the Dawn – hits my nostrils suddenly, and I look over to where I can sense it coming from. In the distance, I can see Lady Mortis raising her hands above her head, her fingers crackling with bright pulses of arcane energy. Even from where I'm standing, I can see the smile of anticipation that is crossing her lips right at this moment, and I can sense her hunger for the power that she craves, even through the confused jumble of hate, rage and insanity that the demonic mob is generating. The energy flows down the length of her arms and I can see her eyes beginning to glow, like two searchlights at midnight.

 _It's nearly time to begin,_  she says, in a voice that crouches at the back of my mind like a hyena. Echoes of her psychic laughter rattle around inside my brain as she does so, and I can sense her satisfaction at having me and my friends so boxed-in.  _Don't be afraid._

 _Funny,_  I tell her caustically. _I was just about to tell you the same thing._ I break the telepathic contact as abruptly as it had begun, not wanting to give the woman any satisfaction at all, but then something happens to throw my fragile composure completely into chaos.

In the distance, I see Mortis unsheathing both her long sword and a slender dagger. Both the blades glow with potent eldritch energies, which I can feel thrumming upwards from the base of my spine. Their mystical power resonates in my teeth and brain like discordant music. _Oh, I don't doubt it – but whoever said I was talking to you?_ Lady Mortis' cruel satisfaction is richly evident in her psionic tone as she worms her way back inside my head with little difficulty, like a maggot into rotting meat. _I'd be willing to bet that your children will be far more in need of courage than you, after all… especially that little boy of yours._

That causes me to snap. A psi-bolt, the like of which I've never created before, explodes out of my skull and carves a path of destruction before it, striking down everything in its path. Alien minds are torn apart at their very foundations by the combination of my pure rage and the dark power of the Dawn, ripped to shreds and cast screaming into oblivion. Skulls crack under the force of my assault, malformed limbs flopping to the ground weakly as their strings are cut without so much as a second thought. Gurgling, guttural cries for mercy go unanswered, my mind snuffing out everything it touches with murderous efficiency, even as I feel two warm streams of blood flowing from my nose and dripping on the ground. My brain feels like it is almost bubbling from my ears, but my telepathic assault doesn't let up – that is, until it finds its way right to Lady Mortis' twisted consciousness and stops dead as it is halted by the dark magic protecting her, as if it is a bullet shot point-blank at a concrete wall. By then, however, I have started to charge towards her, my body fuelled by little more than adrenaline and fury. Behind me, I can sense my team-mates following me, stepping over twitching, ruined alien corpses as they try desperately to keep up with me, but I don't take any notice of them, and soon leave them behind. As the creatures that weren't killed by my telepathic assault close ranks before me, their claws raised and their teeth bared, I simply hew them down without even thinking about it. In only a few moments, my blades are slippery with blood and my hair is thick with gore, but I don't even notice it.

All that I can see is Lady Mortis with her sword raised, ready to make a sacrifice of my children, my son and daughter – the people for whom I have sacrificed so much, with so little expectation of rewards – and the sight fills me with bottomless rage. A scream builds in my throat, raw and searing, and then I release it as I hurl myself towards my quarry, tightening my grip on my swords reflexively as I do so.

Turning away from my children, Lady Mortis steels herself to meet my charge, squaring her shoulders and raising her own weapons in readiness. A slow smile spreads itself across her face as she does so, her fanged teeth glittering like a snake's before it strikes.

 _Come on, then, little girl,_  she goads me, her psychic tone becoming more and more arrogant and cocky with every word spoken. _Time to earn your stripes._ She swings her long blade in a whirring arc, the blade shining as it reflects the chamber's crimson light, and waits for me to come within speaking distance. I don't give her the chance to do that, however, and simply launch myself at her with all the strength I have left, howling with all the pent-up pain I have held in check all this time. Mortis raises her long sword to fend me off, and there is a shower of sparks as the eldritch blade meets my own weapons, metal screeching against metal. She uses the flat of her other weapon to smash me in the face, filling my altered vision with stars and sending me sprawling to the ground momentarily. Looking up at her from my prone position, I can feel my face twisting into an ugly snarl, as blackened, Dawn-altered hair spills down over my eyes. Then I speak, my voice guttural and rasping.

"Touch my children again," I hiss, "and I'll kill you."


	6. Knight To Queen's Bishop Four

Lady Mortis laughs. "I don't think you're in any position to tell me what I can and can't do, little girl," she sneers as I push myself to my feet. "You don't have any influence here whatsoever." Then she hefts her blades again, and strikes a defensive posture. "But just so you feel better… why don't you try and stop me?" Not needing any further encouragement, I gather all my strength in my legs and lunge at her as quickly as I can, ducking inside the range of the larger of Mortis' two blades and rendering it next to useless. Tightening my right hand around the handle of its sword, I drive the katana up and forwards in a focused, hate-driven motion. I feel some momentary resistance, and then I feel the sword begin to bite through soft flesh as it plunges through her layer of protective armour. As it does so, I make sure I twist the blade as much as I can, to open the wound even wider and cause even more pain.

Yes, it's sadistic… but right now, I don't much care. This woman took away my children, and laughed about it right to my face. And if I don't get them back, she's going to drain them like grapes – so under the circumstances, I think I'm pretty damned justified. As I drive the sword even deeper into her body, I take the time to watch her eyes as she gasps in agony and struggles feebly against the blade. "How does that feel, you bitch?" I snarl, spitting the words at her like daggers. Then, to my amazement and horror, Mortis fixes her gaze with mine, her yellow eyes filling with satisfaction, and her gasps turn into loud, piercing laughter. Blood dribbles from the corner of her mouth but she doesn't seem fazed. She stumbles away from me, the sword still sticking out of her chest, and then she grasps its hilt and pulls the blade out slowly but surely, before throwing it to the floor and standing shakily for a moment or two. All the while, her gaze is still locked with mine and a demonic smile is emblazoned on her lips as she laughs insanely.

Then, I notice what's happening to her chest. Her armour is running and flowing into the wound, sealing it and knitting it back together like the wound were never there in the first place. Evidently I'm going to need a better strategy than simply beating her into submission…

"You arrogant, presumptuous fool," Mortis says derisively, spitting a bloody, purple glob of saliva at me as she does so. "I'm going to enjoy breaking you." She snaps her fingers and, behind me, a huge energy field blinks into existence, cutting me off from the rest of the X-Men as they try desperately to catch up with me. Then, Mortis nods over to where Rebecca is kneeling on the ground, chained to the marble throne that Mortis had made her own. "Why are you risking your neck for her? She's nothing but a _thing_ grown in a Petri dish, a waste of genetic potential. Do you think she'd do the same for you?"

"Without question," I say immediately. "She's my daughter. She loves me. I love her."

"Do you?" Mortis chuckles. "Would you love her as much if she looked like this?" She gestures absently at Rebecca with her smaller blade, and I can see some magical energies rippling around her, changing her appearance to that of a half-Asian teenager, her hair going a rich purple colour and a small but still recognisable Crimson Dawn tattoo etched on her cold, distant features. The illusion's scarlet eyes regard me with a distasteful glare, just as Mortis is doing right at this moment, before it shimmers and fades like a heat-flare on the inside of my eyelids. "Would you still care about her then?"

"Yes," I say quietly, "and I would beg her forgiveness every single day for having to go through what I have, too – and if push came to shove, I'd let the Dawn take me before her every time." I smile thinly. "If there's one thing my life has taught me, it's that you never give up on your family. Rebecca and Tom are my family now, and I will not let you take them away from me."

"You don't have a choice," Mortis says simply, driving the point of her long sword into the cracked red ground and folding her arms nonchalantly. "I suppose you think I'm a monster for doing this, don't you?" she asks, suddenly sounding very curious.

I shrug, feeling my flesh hand tightening once again around the hilt of my one remaining sword. "That's not the first word that sprang to mind, but it'll do."

Mortis laughs. "And I suppose you think I don't understand what you're going through, don't you?"

"How could you understand?" I snap, furiously. "How could you understand what you've done to me – to them?"

"More easily than you might imagine," Mortis says, raising her sword and pointing at my son's tiny, wriggling form as he lies on the stone plinth beside Rebecca, screaming and wailing. "I had a son his age once, too, hundreds of years ago. I slit his throat because my masters asked me to sacrifice him to them. I took him in my arms as he bled to death, and I cried – but I knew that because I had done what I'd been asked to do, I would be rewarded." She smiles thinly, and holds up her long sword again. "And I was. My son's soul lives in this sword – in my Soul-Flayer. He will live forever, just as Rebecca and Tom will live forever – as you will live forever. Trust me."

"I'd rather die." My voice is cold and focused, and I can feel my shadow-half screaming at me to launch myself at her (and for once, the two halves of my being agree with each other). "I'd rather die than let you have them. I'd rather die than be your slave."

Mortis shrugs. "If that's the way you want it… that can be arranged." She swings her blade around expertly, letting the air hum softly as the sword cuts through it, and beckons me towards her again. "Come on, then, little girl. Let's get this over with." Maybe you'll have changed your mind by the time I'm done with you, she sends to me sarcastically.

_And maybe you'll be dead,_  I reply, sourly.  _We'll have to see._  Grasping my single remaining sword, I advance on Mortis with as much confidence as I can muster, closing to within touching distance, and then spin my sword up above my head in a battle-ready posture. My shadow-eye glitters with cold anticipation, and I can feel the rest of my body aching for the fight – as well as for other things. Being so close to my children, and yet being unable just to walk over to them and hold them, is bearing heavily on my mind.

I will not let Mortis see the pain this entire situation is causing me, though – she will never get that satisfaction, not while I'm still breathing. Taking one hand off the hilt of my sword for a moment, I extend it towards Mortis and beckon her closer, a slow smile spreading across my face. "Let's finish this," I say simply.

And then we collide again, our blades clanging off each other in a shower of sparks. Lady Mortis throws a low, chopping strike at my legs with the blade she called Soul-Flayer, aiming to hack through my calves and render me helpless. Parrying the black metal with my own sword, I use the momentary respite to launch a punch at Mortis' smug, arrogant face. Time seems to slow down as it impacts, and only returns to normal when I hear the satisfying sound of bone being shattered under my hand. Mortis howls with pain and lashes out wildly with her smaller blade. It carves a long gash down the flesh side of my face, opening my skin from the edge of my ear to the front of my cheek, causing black-tinged blood to stream out and patter lightly on the ground. Tendrils of darkness curl out from my shadow-flesh and link up with the blood, intent on turning more of my face into living night – but while I'm concentrating on Mortis, I can't turn them back, so the awful cold of the Dawn engulfs more of my body... but strangely, as more of my flesh succumbs to it, I can feel the Dawn bonding itself more and more to my will, as if the fusion of my shadow-flesh and real flesh is giving me greater control over the power that the Dawn represents.

Right now, it doesn't matter what I'm feeling. Ignoring the increased loss of sensation in my face, I aim a couple of quick, searching kicks at my opponent's midsection. They impact hard on the body armour that encircles her body, knocking her back a little but not doing too much obvious damage – and giving me an opening for my real attack. In the brief moment that she is staggered, I move inside her blades' range, grasp her left wrist, and flip her up and over in a simple hold-and-throw manoeuvre – one that is so textbook, it's one of the first things taught in the X-Men's self-defence classes back home. As a delaying tactic, it's invariably very useful in hand-to-hand combat since it usually results in broken bones or torn muscles.

Sure enough, as my enemy goes sailing through the air, I hear the gruesome sound of multiple cracks, and the awful shriek that Mortis makes as she lands directly on her smashed arm, her smaller blade skittering out of her grasp as she does so. I kick her prone form twice, quickly, out of some warped desire to satisfy my rage, and then step back to let her regain her footing. If I'm going to beat this creature, I want her to be able to look me in the eyes while I'm doing it.

Mortis rises to her knees, and then to her feet, her left arm hanging horribly limp, even inside the armour that encases it. Her face speaks of the litany of pain I can feel coursing through her flesh… until, that is, she manages to break a smile. As she raises her useless arm towards me, I can hear the sickening sound of bones snapping themselves back together. Then, Mortis flexes her fingers and folds her healed hand into a fist, examining her knuckles thoughtfully. "Is that the best you've got?" she asks, contemptuously. Then, moving with a speed that I had not thought possible, she surges towards me, her remaining sword raised and her eyes alight with hate. She lunges at me with her blade and I barely manage to deflect its edge with my own sword – but, too late, I realise that she was feinting just as much as I had been earlier. Her gauntleted free hand smashes into my cheek – almost the only part of my face that isn't entirely covered by living blackness by now – disorienting me and making me stagger, and then she follows her opening salvo up with a brutal kick to the gut. What little air is left in my lungs is expelled in one horrible instant, and I am unable to prevent my knees from folding uselessly underneath me. I collapse at Mortis' feet, wheezing and crying, and Mortis looks down at me with utter contempt, disgust etching itself across her face. "Get up," she snarls. "Get  _up_!" Finally, frustrated at my inability to muster any strength to do as she is demanding, she reaches down one-handed, grasps the collar of my bodysuit and drags me up to her eye-level, my feet dangling an inch or so off the ground. "Don't make this so easy!" Disgusted, she makes as if to throw me back to the floor, as if this is the moment when she will finally take what she needs from me.

In that single instant before she does so, however, I find myself recalling what I've seen during my time in this crazed alternate dimension: the death, the blood, the insanity – and the Dawn trying to infect others every time I touched them. A flash of grim inspiration sparks in the centre of my brain, and I raise my shadow-hand to Mortis' face and grab hold of it. "You want power, you bitch?" I hiss. "Then take mine." In the following instant, I focus every last scrap of my will in the centre of my mind, and then, slowly but surely, force the darkness that has replaced my hand to move from my fingers into Mortis' skin. It is hard at first, and Mortis tries to throw me off desperately as she feels what it is I'm doing, but I hold on, no matter how hard she thrashes. I can feel my brain beginning to burn with the effort, can feel the restored flesh of my nose wet with blood, but it pays off as the living darkness flows off me, faster and faster, enveloping Mortis' body hungrily – and because she has never encountered power like this before, Mortis has no idea how to fight it. It is literally eating her alive, and she cannot stop it.

Somewhere, someone is screaming. It takes me a moment to realise that Mortis and I are crying out in unison, howling together as the Dawn's living darkness momentarily makes us one single being. She paws weakly at me with her hands, unable to stop the Dawn crawling up her nostrils into her brain, down her throat into her guts and through her skin into her bones, until at last I let go of her, feeling the last squealing, yowling fragment of the Dawn pulling itself away from my soul, like a muscle tearing from a bone. I take a few steps back then, dazed, my body fully cleansed of the wounds I'd suffered to get here, and finally see the full horror of what I have done.

Mortis is standing transfixed, darkness boiling across her skin and turning flesh to shadow and back again, almost in the blink of an eye. She thrashes against it uselessly, screaming with a horrible terror as the Dawn begins to consume her, piece by piece, from the inside out. Her sword clatters to the ground hollowly, and she begins to stagger, clawing at her face in futile panic as the Dawn eats her eyeballs. Behind her, I can see a patch of shadow created by an overhanging outcropping of rock. Pushing some energy into my tired limbs from somewhere deep inside me, I drag myself forwards and close with Mortis again. I wait until she has sensed my presence, even in her crazed state, and then I lead her towards the blackness, like the Pied Piper leading the children of Hamlin into the mountains. As we near the curtain of shadow, I sidestep her maddened flailing and push her towards the darkness, before planting a foot squarely into the small of her back and sending her plunging into the shadows. She screams as she disappears, a horrible, discordant wail that lingers for a few seconds before dissipating into the air as if it had never existed.

As soon as she is gone, the barrier behind me vanishes, its energy evaporating just as quickly as Mortis' death-howl. Taking advantage of that, Warren, Logan, and the rest of the team I brought here (including the energy-wielders I'd left on the cliff above) all crowd towards me, stunned at what I've done. I don't have time for them all right now, though – I have two much more pressing concerns. Walking over to Rebecca and Tom, as quickly as my tired limbs will allow, and after retrieving my lost sword, I kneel down and take my first good look at my daughter since I got here. She is battered and bruised, her face a mass of purple welts, and her clothes are little more than rags, but she is alive, and that's the main thing. Tom, similarly, is not in the best condition appearances-wise – he is naked, disgruntled, and bawling as loudly as he can – but other than that, and a few scratches here and there, he's fine. It's a tough call as to who to go to first, but Rebecca is in worse shape overall, so I kneel down beside her and lift her chin up gently. "Hello, button," I say, softly. "Time to go home."

Rebecca looks up at me for a moment or so, through slightly-glazed eyes. "You're not real," she mumbles, turning her eyes back to the ground and shaking her head insistently. "You're just another illusion. She's trying to trick me again."

I shake my head vigorously. "No," I tell her firmly. "No, button, we're real." I reach out with the fingers of my right hand and, after tucking a wayward ringlet of blonde hair behind my daughter's left ear, run them down the soft skin of Rebecca's cheek. "See?" Putting my arms around her gently, I kiss her on the forehead and rock her quietly back and forth for a moment or so, letting my concern for her flood into her mind unreservedly. "We've come to take you home."

Rebecca enfolds me with her shackled arms and hugs me tightly. "It's really you," she whispers, almost in disbelief. "I thought I'd never see you again."

I smile despite everything, and kiss Rebecca on the cheek. "Sorry, Rebecca. I had to come and check up on you – mother's obligations, you see." Behind me, I can hear the rest of the X-Men finally arriving to help me, with Warren at their head. When my husband is close enough, I let him help Rebecca to her feet and move to where Tom is lying. Picking him up and cradling him softly, I try singing a gentle lullaby to him, to get him to settle a little – at least until I can get him back to the mansion. "Shh, love, shh," I murmur softly. "It's all right… I'm here now." Turning, I see Wolverine slashing Rebecca's chains to fragmented metal shards, before Warren throws her arm over his shoulder and helps her to stand. When he has done that, I can see Sam, Scott and Bishop have joined up with the rest of the team, having obviously freed themselves from the situation at the top of the cliff-face. While Scott and Bishop scan the area to make sure it truly is secure, Sam walks quickly over to where Rebecca is testing her balance, and hugs her quietly.

"Hey, honey," he says, in such a tender tone of voice that I almost can't hear him. Even if I couldn't, the meaning is still clear (I can see it in his thoughts, as clearly as if he had written it in chalk on a blackboard). "Missed you."

"Missed you too, corn-fed," Rebecca says hoarsely, clinging to him as if he is her only link to life. "I… I love you."

"I love you too," Sam replies, kissing her cautiously on her bruised forehead before giving her a half-hearted smile and gesturing with his thumb towards the portal that brought us here. "You want to get going?"

Rebecca nods. "Very much." She holds out her hands and lets Sam take her weight gratefully, resting against him for a second or two.

Suddenly, the metal frame above us (which we had all done our best to ignore) begins to detach itself from the ceiling of the cavern, unrolling from its moorings with a screeching of tormented metal, pieces of it crashing down behind us and depositing its prisoners in screaming knots on the cave's floor. Driven utterly insane by the agony the frame inflicted on them, the hundreds of surviving prisoners turn their frothing, bloody-eyed faces towards us and howl for satisfaction before charging. Evidently this was some form of failsafe device that Mortis had in place should her plans get thwarted – with us dead, she would at least gain some measure of vengeance. At this point, however, I have no time for any kind of rearguard action – I simply want to go home.  _Come on,_  I send to my team-mates as I begin to run towards the path that will lead us out of here, clutching Tom to my chest protectively. Let's get out of here.

And so we run, with Scott, Bishop and Sam firing energy blasts behind us from time to time to try and slow down the rampaging horde that is getting closer to us with every footfall. Sam holds onto Rebecca every time she stumbles, his strong hands helping her tired feet to keep her upright. Brian breaks the neck of a misshapen beast as it gets too close, crushing its windpipe in his fist without blinking, while Meggan guts another monster, splashing herself liberally with its blood in the process. Logan joins them, growling with bloodlust as he does so, his gore-slicked claws cutting apart anything that gets in his way. While those three do their best to slow the advance of the creatures physically, I use my telepathy to plant seeds of dissent and confusion in their broken minds. It's not much, and I dearly wish I could join my brother in the physical confrontation that he is currently engaged in, but the small body I have clutched to my chest constantly reminds me precisely why I cannot surrender to the warrior inside me. So, instead, I use my powers to make monsters chew each other to pieces and beat each other senseless with their own limbs.

It's cold comfort. There is still a part of me that wants to throw itself into the melee without any further thought, to give myself over completely to the warrior inside me. Still, I have bigger concerns right at this moment, and I think I should concentrate on those for the time being. The team continues its systematic withdrawal to the portal, Bishop laying down a sustained carpet of plasma bursts in order to let Brian and Meggan fall back, and Warren using his wings to batter the more hardy creatures into submission as they catch up to him. It's been quite frightening to see him sending bodies flying like broken toys with only a simple sweep of his wings, actually – I've always been so used to seeing his wings as beautiful, gentle things, so to see them mangling Warren's foes with a single strike is quite disconcerting, to say the least.

We run all the way back to the tunnel that will get us back to the portal, ducking and covering our heads as chunks of sharp rock fall from the ceiling like daggers. Flying ahead of us, Brian punches the larger pieces to dust, his fists hammering into the rock almost mechanically. "Do we have everybody?" he shouts, over the din of the stones being powdered.

Bishop glances around, taking in every face with a quick, perfunctory spot-check. "We do," he says, calmly snapping off a dozen shots with his rifle, which each find their mark perfectly. Diseased demons' skulls burst like watermelons as the energy passes straight through them, their malformed brains splattering the sandstone floor and walls of the tunnel. "We should move, now," he continues, pointing towards the upper mouth of the passageway, through which I can just about see the black, yawning surface of the portal.

I'm in full agreement with him, so I begin to run towards the portal ahead of me, with my ragtag team of X-Men following right behind me. We're almost at the portal, with the demon host hot on our heels, when Sam loses his grip on Rebecca and she trips and stumbles, falling to the floor bonelessly. It's only a few moments before we notice, but in that time a lithe, sinuous fiend with a mouthful of razors and hands tipped with hooks is already upon her, leaping through the air with its teeth bared and its claws unsheathed. A look of sheer ecstatic joy is emblazoned on its crazed features as it bears down on my daughter, ready to tear her flesh from her bones. I'm only a few fractions of a second away from unleashing a psi-bolt, and I can sense that Scott and Sam are the same with their respective powers. Rebecca herself is too exhausted and powerless to do anything except close her eyes and wait for the monster to kill her – until the moment when, to everyone's surprise, an energy bolt streaks from behind us all and hits the monster squarely in the chest, vaporising its ribcage in an instant. It falls, twitching, and then lies still. Looking behind me, I can see Bishop stood there, a deep, penetrating scowl on his face and a wisp of smoke escaping from the muzzle of his gun. "I said," he begins, "that we should move."

For a moment, we are all too stunned to move, but then the din from only a little way down the tunnel forces us to pick up our feet. Sam scoops Rebecca up into his arms and blasts forwards, passing through the portal before there can be any chance of a repeat performance of what just happened, and then the rest of us arrive at the dark doorway, its liquid surface rippling with energy. "You go," I tell Warren when he urges me to go first. "Here." I hand him our son, and stand with my back towards the portal, my swords drawn and ready. "Don't worry – I'll be right behind you." Brian begins to protest as well, before Meggan silences him and drags him through the portal. Before long I am alone, and the rampaging throng of monsters is bearing down upon me, getting closer with every step. When they are close enough for me to almost see the whites of their eyes, I smile. "Sorry," I whisper softly. "I win."

And with that, I step backwards into the portal, watching the monsters howl with dismay as their final prize is denied them. My family has been reunited, and now I'm going home.

It's a good feeling.


	7. Checkmate

The infirmary is quiet, even with so many people in it – Rebecca is lying in one bed, with Tom and myself sat next to her (Warren is on an errand for her at the moment, so he's not around), and Remy is lying in the next one across, with Rogue turned towards him, chatting quietly as she does so. Rebecca had been brought down here the moment she returned from Lady Mortis' demonic realm, and Remy has been recovering from whatever that winged creature did to him when it kidnapped Tom. Right now, the two of them are making good progress, and have obviously been allowed visitors by the slightly overzealous Dr McCoy, who now exits his small office area and comes over to check on Rebecca, a clipboard and pen clutched in his paws. "Good morning, everybody," he says cheerfully. "And how are my two favourite patients this fine day?"

"We're your only patients, Doc," Remy retorts, before coughing a little and wiping his mouth with a tissue. "That sort of makes us your favourites by default, doesn't it?"

"There's always one, isn't there?" Hank rolls his eyes. "Very well, Mr LeBeau, how are you today?"

"Still a little woozy, but pretty good otherwise," Remy says, coughing slightly. He starts stretching a little, almost like a cat waking up from a nap, and grins. "I think that fried breakfast you made us was a great start to the day. Thanks, Doc."

Hurriedly, Hank puts a finger to his lips. "Quiet, young man, or you'll have the whole mansion demanding I cook them breakfast every morning. That was a special treat for today only, so don't expect me to be dishing them out every time you get a hangnail…" Rolling his eyes, he turns his attention to Rebecca, who is sitting up in her bed and clutching the box of chocolates that I'd brought down for her (seeing as she'll probably get released today, I thought it was appropriate to treat her a little bit). "And how are you, young lady? Spry as always, I hope?"

"I feel better than I did yesterday," Rebecca replies, with a tired smile. "I really want to sleep in my own bed tonight, though."

Hank smiles. "I thought you might. As I said the last time you were here, I shall miss our little chats. They do brighten up my day a great deal, after all." Putting a clawed hand to his chin for a moment, he continues "Do you know, Rebecca, between your mother and yourself, I think I have grounds to give the female half of your family the option of permanent residence here in the med-lab. What do you think?"

Giggling bashfully, Rebecca returns Hank's toothy grin. "I don't think Sam, Dad or Tom would be very happy about that, Hank," she replies, laughing. "But thanks for the offer, anyway."

Hank sighs, and rubs his brows in disappointment, before checking off a few more things on his clipboard and chuckling to himself. "I suppose so. I also suppose I shall see you around above stairs, as it were, so please be sure to stop me and give me a reason to have you carted back down here as soon as possible. Now then... I have to go get ready for a biochemists' conference in New York, so I shall have to leave you in your mother's capable hands. Do try and keep yourself out of trouble while I'm away, won't you?" He takes Rebecca's bandaged hand in his and squeezes it reassuringly. "You really are my favourite patient, you know." After having made Rebecca blush bright purple, he winks at her and retreats back into his office with his notes.

"Oh my," Rogue says. "Hank never says that to any of us. I think you got yourself an admirer there, girl."

"I agree," Remy adds, with a chuckle. "He must like your eyes. They are breathtaking, after all."

"Oh, shut up," Rebecca retorts, her face still flushed with blood. "Hank's just my friend. Friends can talk to each other like that, can't they?"

"Yes, Rebecca, you're right – they can," I say, doing my best to back my daughter up against the two other women. "You two should know better," I say, pointing a scolding finger at Rogue and Remy. "Hank has nothing but good intentions for her."

"You're the telepath," Gambit replies, holding his hands up and raising his eyebrows. "I'll have to take your word for it."

Just then, a suited Warren enters through the main door of the med-lab. To my surprise, he is carrying a violin and bow in his hands, carefully making sure he doesn't accidentally drop them or jar them against something. "Hey, Rebecca," he says cheerfully. "Brought you what you asked for." Rebecca puts a hand to her brow, shaking her head slightly.

"Dad… do you have any idea how to follow simple instructions?" she says, exasperated. "I asked you not to bring me that when Mum was here, didn't I?" She gestures at me in frustration. "Well, what do you call that?"

"You know, I am still right in front of you, Rebecca," I say, indignantly. "Why on earth would you want to keep something like this from me? I really doubt I'd be angry about you wanting to learn the violin, after all."

Rebecca sighs. "I wanted to get a little bit of practice in while I was down here. It was going to be a surprise for your next birthday," she says quietly. "I wanted to show you that I could learn something properly, and not just rely on everything Sinister put into my head, so I thought I'd teach myself to play the violin." She shrugs. "I thought I'd be able to play something for you at the party… but it turns out I'm a really bad teacher. I haven't been able to do much more than a few scales at this point." Sighing, she runs her hands through her long blonde hair, fluffing it out around her shoulders and tugging a little on the braid that Jean put into it. "Some superior scientific achievement I turned out to be, right?"

"Well, I could teach you, if you like," Jenny says, swinging her legs down over the side of her bed so that she is facing Rebecca more completely. "Rogue will tell you I'm a pretty good violinist – I'm not great, but I can still play whenever it's Mardi Gras. Would you like me to give you a hand?" She offers Rebecca a smile, as if to bolster my daughter's apparently flagging confidence. "Really, it's no trouble."

"Yes, please," Rebecca says, gratefully. "You have no  _idea_  how much that would help me."

" _Fantastique_!" Remy exclaims, sounding delighted. "You know, cherie, maybe this could be good for both of us – maybe you can teach me something, as well?"

Rebecca rolls her eyes. "Somehow I doubt it, but we'll see." Her face lights up then, inspiration flashing across her pretty, sculptured features in an instant, and she continues "Hey, maybe I could teach you karate instead? All we'd need is a couple of hours a week in the Danger Room's dojo programme, and I could have you as a black belt in no time. How does that sound?"

"That's my girl," Warren says encouragingly, ruffling his daughter's hair a little. "Go with what you know, right?"

Remy raises his eyebrows, and puts a hand to her chin in order to ponder Rebecca's suggestion for a moment or two. "Sounds good, cherie," he says eventually. "Just be gentle - don't think Rogue would forgive you if you broke me, after all."

"Damn straight," Rogue laughs, slipping her hand into Jenny's as she does so. "I don't want to have to put him back together every time he has a lesson, okay?"

"Don't worry, Rogue, I won't hurt him," Rebecca assures Rogue confidently. "Not intentionally, anyway." She winks at the two of them before Rogue helps Gambit out of bed into a dressing gown and a wheelchair, so that they can leave the infirmary for a little while, before looking over at her father. "Could you put that down here, please, Dad?" She indicates her bedside table, and Warren obligingly lays the violin down on the table's surface, moving Rebecca's glass of water and box of aspirin tablets to one side so that they don't get knocked off onto the floor.

"There you go, honey," he says, before his face takes on a slightly more serious aspect. "It's… it's good to know you're going to be okay. Had us all really worried there for a while."

"Thanks… thanks, Dad," Rebecca replies, a little taken aback by his honesty. "Not just for this – for everything; you could have left me in that other place, but you came and found me." She rubs her bandaged hands over her face for a moment or two, as if to compose herself for what she is going to say next. "You and Mum risked your lives to save me – again. I don't know what I'm supposed to do to pay you back for all of this. What  _can_  I do?"

Warren enfolds her in his strong arms then, pressing her head to his chest gently. "Hey, hey… shh," he reassures her. "You don't have to do anything, Rebecca. You already repaid us, just by being you." He draws back a little and smiles at her, his pearl-white teeth bright against his blue lips. "I know it sounds pretty corny, honey, but it's true. You're our special little girl, and nothing's worth more to me and your mom than that, I promise." He kisses her on the forehead gently, and then winks at her. "Although if you wanted to get me that DVD surround-sound system I'd wanted for Christmas… be my guest. I hate spending more than I have to, after all…"

Rebecca hits him then, slapping his arm with her hand. "I hate you," she says sourly, before hugging him again, a little more tightly this time. "Don't ever change."

Just then, Tom (who has been remarkably quiet up to this point, since it often doesn't take that much to wake him up from one of his naps) opens his eyes and gurgles a little, wriggling sleepily in my arms. "I think he'd like you to hold him," I say, standing up from my chair and easing Tom into Rebecca's hands. Using Tom like this is a pretty transparent ploy, I know, but it seems to work, as Rebecca's already brightening expression begins to sparkle with her usual _joie de vivre_ once again. "There you are," I tell her, with an encouraging smile. "He really likes having his big sister home."

"It's nice to be home," Rebecca asserts quietly, gazing down at her little brother in slightly bewildered awe. "Hi there, sleepyhead," she says, her voice little more than a hushed whisper, as Tom turns his innocent blue-eyed gaze towards her. "Bet you're as glad to back home as I am, right?" As a way of answering, Tom blows a bubble and burbles quietly to himself, which makes Rebecca's face break into a broad, happy grin. "I'll take that as a 'yes', then," she says, brushing Tom's face clear of some wispy blond hair.

Just then, the doors to the med-lab hiss open quietly, causing us all to look round to see who's arrived. Logan pads quietly through the open doorway, clad in his battered leather jacket and jeans, with a bunch of roses clutched in one hand. "Logan!" Rebecca exclaims, excitedly, her face lighting up as the squat little man approaches her bedside. Handing Tom back to me hurriedly, she holds her arms out for him so that she can give him a hug, which he gladly accepts.

"Hey, punkin," Logan says in an uncharacteristically kindly tone, touching her chin with his knuckles. "Thought you could use somethin' to brighten up your stay here, so I brought you these." Looking around the cards and get-well presents scattered around the bed where Rebecca is lying, he continues "Say… where's the hayseed? Would've thought he'd be the first in line to be here."

Rebecca smiles. "Sam saw me earlier today," she explains. "He's out buying me a present right now. He promised he'd get me something really special for when I left here."

"Is that right?" Logan says, thoughtfully. "Guess I'll have to make sure he keeps his word, then, won't I?" He winks at Rebecca then, a smile crossing his rough face. It's very strange to see this side of him so shortly after his display of animalistic rage in Lady Mortis' dimension – but then again, I suppose that very duality is what makes Logan who he is, and the reason why I'm proud to call him my best friend. "Say, pup… I was wondering if you'd like to finish that drink we were havin' before you got kidnapped. It was my round, so I guess owe you a Coke." Reaching into a pocket, he takes out his wallet and extracts from it a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. "So whaddya say? You want to go get that drink tonight, or what?"

"Um… thanks, Uncle Logan," Rebecca begins, somewhat guiltily, "but I was kind of hoping that Dad would take me out tonight. There's a new film out I'd been wanting to go and see, and –" She stops, all too aware that she's not explaining herself well. "I'm sorry, Uncle Logan," she continues, hesitantly. "Maybe next week?"

Logan's smile wilts somewhat, like a dying flower, but he tries very hard not to show his obvious disappointment. "Yeah – maybe next week." Clearing his throat and attempting to change the subject, he says "So how you gettin' on down here, kid? You feelin' any better?"

"Definitely, now that you're here," Rebecca replies, taking one of his hands in hers and squeezing gently (obviously, she sensed the same thing I did, and is trying her hardest to fix it). "Hey, do you want to play some  _Tekken_  later? I bet Bobby would let you if I asked him nicely."

"Thanks, kid, but I like gettin' into fights I can actually  _win_ ," Logan says, his smile returning with a vengeance. "I've seen you and the ice cube kick each other's tails for hours – and by my count, you're always the one who comes out on top." He laughs affectionately, his gruff voice filling with good humour once again. "It'd be like me tryin' to fight Galactus, or somethin'." Then, he gestures towards the violin on Rebecca's bedside table. "Hey… you never told me you played the violin."

"You never asked," Rebecca retorts, with a grin. "It was supposed to be a surprise for Mum, but Dad kind of ruined it." She rolls her eyes. "Isn't he wonderful?"

"Yeah, I noticed," Logan says, watching Warren's cheerful expression change to one of irritation. "Never mind, punkin – your daddy's a good guy, really, an' I'm sure he meant well. Don't be too hard on him, 'kay?" Getting up from his seat, he brushes his lips across Rebecca's brow gently, and then turns to go. "Anyway, I gotta see a guy about a bike later, so I guess I better go get ready. I'll see you later, darlin'." Then, looking down at where Warren is seated, he nods to my husband. "She made the right choice, Wings. You're her daddy – that's as it should be. Don't waste it." And then he is gone, as quietly and quickly as he arrived.

"Wow," Warren says, obviously very taken aback. "He must be getting soft in his old age."

"I wouldn't bet on that, Warren," I tell him, as I move Tom a little so that I can settle him against my bosom again. "Just take his advice."

After half an hour or so, I leave Warren with Rebecca so that I can find somewhere quiet to breastfeed Tom. It's a chore I've come to love and resent in equal measure – while it has helped Tom and me to establish a really close bond, it often makes my breasts sore and tender, even with the nipple shields Warren bought me. Additionally, there is a part of me that still yearns for the thrill of battle, that hungers for combat. It's still very strange for me to actually  _want_  to play the happy mother – ten years ago I never would have envisaged myself being in this position, not in a million years. When I was a little girl, all I ever wanted was to jump from one adventure to the next – and that, I think, is probably one of the reasons I ended up getting blinded.

Now, though… I wouldn't give this up for anybody, not for any price. I fought Mortis to get my children back, and I would have died to protect them – I would have sold my soul to make everything all right again. They're my flesh and blood, and I will not have them taken away from me again.

Walking out onto the veranda of the mansion, I walk over to a spot on the steps where I can sit down and feed Tom in relative privacy – but apparently I was so wrapped up in thinking about him and his big sister that I didn't notice Bishop. He is sitting on the steps looking out over the garden, dismantling and reassembling one of his plasma pistols piece by piece. He rubs every component down with a scrap of cloth until the metal shines, and then slots the piece back into the skeletal framework of the gun with well-practiced efficiency.

It takes him a few moments to notice me, and then he simply nods at me, saying "Hello, Elisabeth." Then he says "Should I go elsewhere? You usually come out here to feed your son, don't you?"

Raising an eyebrow, I say "And here I thought I was the telepath. Very astute of you, Bishop – although if I didn't know better, I'd say you'd been spying on me."

Bishop shrugs as I sit down on the step beside him, watching me settle Tom gently in my arms before speaking again. "You all have your routines. With a little detective work, it's easy to figure out where you all are at certain times of the day. It's mid-morning now, so you yourself will usually come out here for your son's second feed of the day. You will usually spend twenty minutes to half an hour out here, and then will go back indoors for a training session in the Danger Room, which can last for anything up to an hour." He pauses. "Every good soldier needs to know where his comrades are – Malcolm and Randall used to tease me about it, but it saved their lives more than once." His face twists upwards into an uncharacteristic smile, giving his usually dour and morose face a much more pleasant, good-humoured appearance. "I suppose I've scared you now, haven't I?"

I nod. "Just a little, yes."

"Then I apologise," Bishop says, putting down his half-assembled pistol and throwing one leg over the other before pointing up at the sky. "I come out here to look at the sky, as well as do weapons maintenance. Do you know, in my time, the sky is sometimes painful to look at? When the rad-storms used to hit, it would seem as if it was bleeding." He gestures to the clear blue of the sky again. "But this, on the other hand… I still haven't gotten used to this kind of blue sky yet. You'd have thought I might, after so long in this time, but…" His voice tails off. "I'm sorry, Elisabeth. I'm not making much sense, am I?"

"On the contrary, I think you're making perfect sense," I say, before something that's been niggling at me since we got back decides that now would be a perfect time to emerge. "Tell me something, Bishop… you've never liked Rebecca, have you?"

"No," Bishop replies, honestly. "I think she's a security risk, no matter how much you think she's changed. Anybody with that deep a connection to Sinister needs to be watched."

"Precisely," I say. "So tell me this, then – why did you save her, when we were in that hell-dimension? You could have let her die."

Bishop sighs, and picks up his half-assembled plasma pistol again, glancing over its grip and barrel briefly before answering. "I know what it's like to lose family to monsters," he says quietly. "I didn't want to see you go through the same thing." Then he turns back towards me, raising a hand to point in my direction. "Don't think this means I trust her any more than I did before. I simply didn't want a brother X-Man to suffer the way I did when I lost Shard."

"Of course," I reply, before leaning over and kissing him on the cheek. "Thank you, Bishop. You're a good man."

Looking a little shocked, Bishop raises his free hand to his cheek, brushing his fingers against the place where I kissed him. "Thank… thank you, Elisabeth," he says, sounding dumbfounded (which, for him, is something of a first).

"Don't mention it," I tell him, before pointing towards the group of birds flitting here and there across the lawn in front of us. "I'm sure they wouldn't mind us watching them for a little while. Shall we?"

Bishop smiles again then (twice in short succession must be something of a record for him, I suspect), and says "Mrs Worthington, I would be honoured."

_Fin._


End file.
